


Matters Of The Heart

by RuMaDoo



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:34:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 40
Words: 131,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23740876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuMaDoo/pseuds/RuMaDoo
Summary: When (y/n) Watson comes to London to see her brother John, she gets more than she bargained for. His genius flat mate who’s intelligence rivals her own and a less than ideal romance.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/Reader, Sherlock Holmes/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes. The famous detective in 221B bakers street, London. He shared the apartment with a certain Dr John Watson, your brother. You hadn't seen him in years. Things always got in the way. Him living in London and you living in Glasgow. You worked as a detective, or you didn't actually have a job but solved cold cases for fun. The latter was the truth, the former the one you told people who asked you what you do for a living. You sighed as the big black door loomed over you. Showing up unannounced was never a good idea, you never knew what you'd walk into, but you, being you, was never underprepared. You reached your shaking hands to the knocker and rammed it against the wood three times rhythmically. It was so cold the quaking of your hands could be blamed on that, but you knew it was nerves. (Y/N) Watson? Nervous? 

An elderly lady, roughly in her mid 50's answered the door. She was 5"1 and her hair was cut short in a typical "old lady" hair cut. She was wearing a little makeup, nothing drastic. Some light eyeshadow and a nude lipstick. Cheap stuff, probably old. You deduced from the way the lipstick was quickly creasing and crusting. She had a purple blouse that was meticulously ironed. You snapped yourself out of it to greet her.  
"Hi I'm here to see Dr John Watson."  
"Just John? Are you a client?" You nodded easier than explaining your family tree. "Ah you'll be wanting Sherlock then. Just up the stairs. I'd knock before entering too." You smiled  
"Thank you." You headed up the stairs, the door was open and revealed John and Sherlock sat facing eachother. Sherlock looked deep in thought. He had dark brown locks and lots of them. His white skin was almost perfect bar the frown lines between his brows. His cheekbones were high and sharp. Honestly, he looked so beautiful it was hard to tell if he was human or a scary wax figure. You deduced him. Definitely living.  
"Well? Are you going to come in or are you just going to stand at the door?" He asked. You smiled. He didn't even open his eyes and he knew you were there. He was already living up to your expectations. John turned in his seat to look at the door. He blinked, like he couldn't believe his eyes.  
"(Y/N)...?"  
"Hi John."  
Sherlocks eyes opened, finally looking at you. John stood up quickly and ran to you to embrace you. You tightly hugged him back.  
"I didn't know you were coming."  
"Neither did I." You let out a bitter laugh.  
Sherlock observed you intensely.  
"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" You said, pulling away from your brothers vice like grip. He stepped back.  
"Uh yeah... (y/n) this is Sherlock Holmes... Sherlock, (y/n). My sister." 

Sherlock had known about you for a while. He deduced it a while back, but he had no clue you'd show up on their doorstep. "Do you have a case?"  
"Excuse me?" You asked  
"Do you have a case for us." He repeated, not moving from his seat.  
"No."  
"Goodbye then." He got up and began to manoeuvre you towards the door.  
"Sherlock!" John snapped. "Get your hands off of my sister!" Sherlock held his hands in the air in surrender. You spun on your heel to face him as he backed away.  
"You can't just shoo her away!" John scolded as you fixed your trench coat, dusting off the shoulders angrily as if you were brushing away his touch. That's it. You decided to fully deduce him. You wanted the tiniest details, things to dig at him with.  
"Sherlock. What a strange name, don't you think John." It wasn't a question. Your older brother groaned, knowing exactly what you were doing. "Almost like it's not a real name, don't you think?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, his expression pushed you to continue. "Ah, that'd be because it isn't real, is it. Let me guess. It's something really boring isn't it? Richard? No... although you are a bit of a dick." You laughed slightly at your own wordplay. "Hmm let's see... Oliver? No. Ah! I got it. William. God it's so... common. I'm guessing Sherlock is a middle name that you took on in attempts to seem... interesting. Girls fall for you, but you push them away. Well not just girls. You push everyone away, saying that they wouldn't understand you, but you're just scared of being understood. You think anyone who comes too close is a threat and they'll see who you really are. Not a sociopath. A human. With emotions. You even push family away. You have a brother, I've not deduced this, who doesn't know of Mycroft Holmes and his... strange brother. But you obviously don't have a good relationship because you seemed extremely uncomfortable with my interactions with John. Affection scares you." Sherlock flinched slightly, unnoticeable to anyone normal, but you yourself were not normal.  
"That's enough (Y/N)." John said quietly. You could tell you hit each and every base. Perfect.  
You gave a sly half grin. You hadn't noticed that you'd closed the space between you while going on your rant. You sighed and stepped back and dusted off your hands on your thighs. He seemed insulted. No... not insulted... interested.  
"You deduced me." He said plainly.  
"Yes, you're not the only clever one, Mr Holmes." You stated back.   
"Tea?" John offered you cut the silence.


	2. Elementary, Mr Holmes

It seemed like it'd been hours that John had been in the kitchen making the three of you tea. While he was gone, you sat on the couch and Sherlock sat in his chair, both of you silently thinking. His fingers were steepled under his chin, deep in thought. His eyes were closed.  
"(Y/n). Here's your tea. Just like you like it!" John places the mug in your hands. It's was chipped around the rim, badly taken care of like everything in the apartment. The mantelpiece seemed to get the worst of it. There were holes in it, many, many holes. Like someone had stabbed it over and over. You stood up and approached the mantel, running your fingers over the dents. 

At this moment Mrs Hudson came up the stairs. "Oh Sherlock! Look at the mess you've made." She sighed, and began scurrying around the apartment. Her eyes landed on you.  
"Oh! Sorry! Must be a very interesting case you have if you're still here." She smiled at you.  
"Not a case, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock said, still in his chair, eyes closed. A hint of annoyance lingered on his voice.  
"But you said-" Mrs Hudson looked at you but was cut off.  
"She's my sister." John said, smiling at you. You smiled back at him, then turned to face Mrs Hudson.  
"Yeah, uh- sorry about lying to you I just didn't know how this would go down." You laughed awkwardly.  
She smiled  
"Don't worry yourself dearie, family's a difficult thing." She continued cleaning. Sherlock got out of his chair and stood at the window.  
"What about these suicides, then, Sherlock? Thought that would be right up your street. Three of them, exactly the same. That's a bit funny, isn't it?" She asked Sherlock.  
"Four. There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time." He said after fidgeting with the blind.  
"A fourth? How do you know?" Her face almost contorted in confusion. He pointed to the window as a half-assed explanation. Everyone looked out. There was a police car with a blue light flashing outside. 

There was thumping on the stairs. One man. Roughly 70-75kg from the strengths of his steps. The door flew open.  
"Where?" Sherlock asked without turning around.  
"Brixton. Lauriston Gardens." The man replied.  
"What's different about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me, if there wasn't something new."  
“You know how they never leave notes?” "Yes." He said, like he was insulted that he wouldn't already know.  
"This one did. Will you come?"  
Sherlock just looked at him. Tempted now, interested. A moment of silence passed, as he was considering the offer.  
"...who's on forensics?" He asked.  
"Anderson." The man said bluntly. He obviously knew it's best to give Sherlock the answers straight away.  
"Anderson won't work with me."  
"He won't be your assistant." The officer said I a matter of fact voice.  
"But I need an assistant." He said as his eyes scanned John, then fell on you.  
"Will you come?" The detective asked.  
"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind you."  
"Thank you!" He said, nodding to everyone as acknowledgment, then he was gone. A moment later Sherlock whoops with excitement.  
"Brilliant!" He shouted, practically jumping over the couch and scrambling around the room to collect his kit.  
"And I thought it was going to be a boring evening. Serial suicides, and now a note - oh, it's Christmas!" He practically dashed for the door with John following after.  
"Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late - might need some food."  
"I'm your landlady, dear, not your  
housekeeper." She replied, obviously that line had been used many times from the confidence she said it with.  
"Something cold is fine!" He said, barrelling our the door. John looked at you apologetically before you showed him away so he'd join Sherlock. You picked up a newspaper.  
"Oh, look at him, dashing about? My husband was just the same." She smiled and continued to clean up the kitchen. You turned your attention back onto the paper. Under the headline "Third 'Suicide' found" there's a photograph. It's a picture of the man who just left. Panning down to the words "Inspector Lestrade, in charge of the investigation". So that's his name... 

"You're a detecive, correct?"  
You turn to the voice, startled. Sherlock was standing in the doorway.  
"Um- I guess you can say that."  
"Any good?"  
"Do I have to deduce you again?" You rolled your eyes.  
"Seen a lot of injuries then? Violent deaths?"  
"Well... yes."  
"Want to see more." This made you practically glow.  
"Oh god yes."  
"Get your coat."  
You grabbed your long coat as you practically flew down the stairs after him. 

"We're all going to be late Mrs. Hudson! Don't bother with the food."  
"All if you?" Mrs Hudson seemed shocked that he was taking you as well.  
"Impossible suicides - four of them.  
No point in sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!"  
"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent." She smiled  
"Who cares about decent. The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" He said, flamboyantly flinging open the door.

The cab ride was slightly awkward.  
"You're really bringing music baby sister to a crime scene?" John said irritably you break the sentence.  
"Yes and she's used to it, is she not?"  
"She is used to it." You interrupted their dispute. They both looked at you, sherlocks gaze fizzling away quickly, but John kept his eyes trained on you like you were a naughty child who interrupted her parents.  
"John, I'm not a child anymore. I don't need protecting." John was only five years older than you yet believed you were still a baby. It was irritatingly sweet. You were 25 and he was 30. Sherlock must roughly be that age too.  
"Surely if anyone needs babying, it'd be sherlock seeing as he doesn't act his age." You day inwardly with a little snicker. 

Arriving at the scene it was already dark--  
and as it got closer it became more bleak and real. A tape cordon, and blocking your path. A y'all woman with a mass of curly hair stood behind it. Her expression is bleak and cynical.  
"Hello, Freak." She addresses Sherlock.  
"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." He said, ignoring her mean comment.  
"Why?" She asked, clearly not wanting to let him in.  
"I was invited."  
"Why?" She asked again, seemingly more irritated.  
"I think he wants me to take a look." He said sarcastically.  
"Well you know what I think, don't you?" She practically snarled.  
"Always, Sally. I even know you didn't make it home last night." He said with a smug half smile. She stares at him, dead eyed. She was used to this. She flicks her eyes to you.  
"Who's this?"  
"She's my sister." John said.  
"Really? Most people take family in outings to the park or to coffee. Not a crime scene."  
"(Y/n) Watson, Sargent Sally Donovan." Sherlock wave his hands between the two of you, introducing you to eachother. "Old friend." The word friend dripped from his mouth seeping with bitterness.  
Sally raised her walkie-talkie and began to speak into it.  
"Freaks here. Bringing him in." She stated, lifting the tape for you all to duck under. She turned on her heel and led you up the garden path.

You began to expertly scan the front of the house.  
dark, abandoned. Not too rundown, but cold and empty. And then Sherlock, turns, looks up and down the street. Through the front door stood a man. He glowers at Sherlock, but his gaze softened as he laid his eyes on you. You already felt this man would make you uncomfortable.  
"Anderson! Here we are again." He said, taunting the man who's expression hardened once again.  
"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. We clear on that?" He growled.  
"And is your wife away for long?"  
"Don't pretend you worked that out. Someone told you that!"  
"Your deodorant told me that." You smiled, knowing what he was insinuating.  
"My deodorant?" He asked quizzically.  
"It's for men—" he smiled  
"Of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!"  
"So is Sargent Donovan." You interjected, causing a panicked look to be exchanged between Sally and Anderson.  
"Oh! And I think it just vapourised! May I go in?" Sherlock smiled at you. Anderson's face turned bright red.  
"Whatever you're trying to imply-"  
"I'm not implying anything - I'm sure Sally just came round for a lovely little chat, and happened to stay over." He glanced at you again, knowing you were about to finish his sentence, almost waiting for you to. You gave Sally a quick glance.  
"And I assume scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." You smirked. John turned red and looked at them with wide eyes.  
"Right, just go in, just go!" Anderson ushered the three of you inside. 

You entered the dark, narrow hallway, with peeling wallpaper. The corridor led to an open door at the end, where DI Lestrade stood, waiting for you. He was in full crime scene gear. "I can give you two minutes." He announced.  
"I may need longer." He said as he confidently strode into the kitchen.  
It was a grimy disused kitchen - there's a couple of uniformed policemen, this room had been set up as an operations base for the investigation. Sherlock tossed a crime scene coverall to John and yourself.  
"You'll need to put this on." He told you both. Lestrade looks at you, he looks pissed.  
"Who is this?"  
"She's with me."  
"Yes but who is she?"  
"I told you- she's with me." He seemed to become irritated with the question and neither you or John attempted to say anything. He began to leave.  
"Aren't you going to...?" You gestured to your coverall that was ill fitting. The glare you got in return sent shivers down your spine.  
"So where are we?" He asked Lestrade.  
"Upstairs."  
The four of you climb the rickety stair case. It's a wonder how it doesn't collapse under you all. Sherlock is the only one not wearing coveralls- although no one seems to pull him up on this fact.  
"Jennifer Wilson, according to her  
credit cards - we're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long - some kids found her." He informed Sherlock. 

The upstairs room around you is dark, sombre, with peeling wallpaper. And in the centre, a splash of pink. A woman in a a bright pink coat, and pink shoes, lies dead, sprawled face down. Even though John is probably used to it now, he is more human than you or Sherlock and a dead woman lay before him still shocks him although he regains his composure. Sherlock - in his element now, eager, is almost like a bloodhound, almost quivering, you could see his mind running at a million miles an hour.  
"Shut up!" He snapped at Lestrade.  
"I didn't say anything!" He said defensively.  
"You were thinking. It's annoying."  
An exchange of glances between Lestrade and John. Lestrade rolls his eyes, used to this. It seems everyone just puts up with this mans shit because he's clever.  
Sherlock does what he needs to, inspecting the body. You began to observe, words hovering around your sight and then disappearing in puff of dust like chalk.  
"Got anything Sherlock?" He asked.  
"Not much."  
"She's German." Anderson stated, he was leaning against the door frame. "Rache is German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something."  
"Yes, thank you for your input." Sherlock says, uninterested. Without looking up, he reached over and closed the door neatly in Anderson's face. You smiled.  
"She's German?" Lestrade questioned.  
"Of course, she's not German. She's from out of town though. Planned to spend a single night in London, before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."  
You opened your phone, checking the weather app.  
"Sorry, obvious?" John asked  
"What about the message though?" Lestrade interjected  
"(Y/N) what do you think?" Sherlock turned to you.  
"Of the message?"  
"Of the case. Everything. Tell me what you see." Lestrade looked at him in confusion, then to you.  
You sighed and looked over the body again. "Asphyxiation probably. Passed out,  
and choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her - could've been a seizure, possibly drugs." You began.  
"You know what it was, you've read the papers." He pressed.  
"She's a fourth suicide."  
"Sherlock, two minutes I said. Need anything you've got." Lestrade sighed.  
"Victim is in her late forties.  
Professional person going by her clothes - I'd guess something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. She's travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay for one night - that's obvious from the size of her suitcase."  
"Suitcase?" Lestrade looked confused. It was a look that he wore 90% of the time when Sherlock was around you guessed.  
"Suitcase, yes. She's been married  
for at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them have known she was married."  
"For God's sake. If you're just making this up..." Lestrade sighed again.  
"The wedding ring, ten years old at  
least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding rings - state of her marriage, right there. The inside of the rings are shinier than the outside - that means they're regularly removed; the only polishing they get is when she works them off her finger. It's not for work - look at her nails, she doesn't work with her hands - so what, or rather who, does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover - she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over time - so more likely a string of them." You stated, not even moving your eyes from the body. Everyone's eyes fell on you. "It's simple." John laughed slightly, his show off sister and show of best friend of course they'd be battling like this.  
"Cardiff?" Lestrade asked.  
"Obvious isn't it?" You ask.  
"Not to me." John and Lestrade both said.  
"Dear God, what's it like in your funny little brains, it must be so boring. Her coat!" Sherlock almost shouted. The two men looked, clearly seeing nothing.  
"It's slightly damp - she's been in  
heavy rain within the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time." He felt her coat.  
"Under her coat collar is damp too. She turned it up against the wind! She's got an umbrella in her left pocket but it's unused and dry. Not just wind, strong wind - too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she's staying over night so she must have a come a decent distance. But she can't have travelled more than two or three hours, cos her coat hasn't dried. So where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" You hold up your phone with the weather app still displayed.  
"Cardiff." You say.  
"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade demanded.  
"Yeah, where is it? She must have a phone or an organiser - We can find out who Rachel is." He said looking around the room for the case.  
"She was writing Rachel?" Lestrade was starting to get on your nerves with the stupid questions.  
"No, she was leaving an angry note  
in German - of course she was writing Rachel. No other word it can be. Question is, why did she wait till she was dying to write it..." Sherlock said.  
"How do you know she had a case?" God Lestrade do you ever shut up?  
"Back of her right leg. Tiny splashes on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her, with her right hand - you don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious - could only be an overnight bag. So we know she was staying one night. Now where is it - what have you done with it?"  
"There wasn't a case."  
Sherlock was back at the body, examining again. But this reply brought him up short. He looked at Lestrade. Staring at him.  
He took a moment.  
"Say that again."  
"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase here." Lestrade seemed to be irritated now too.  
Sherlock straightened up now. The wheels in his brain turning. He shoves past Lestrade and strides onto the landing.  
"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase - was there a suitcase in this house." Sherlock bellowed. The officers all stared at him blankly. Lestrade emerged from the room followed by you and John.  
"Sherlock there was no case." He reaffirmed.  
Sherlock was almost in a frenzy of thought. "But they take the poison themselves. They chew and swallow the pills themselves, there are clear signs - even you lot couldn't miss them."  
"Right, yes, thank you- and?"  
"... it's murder. All of them. I  
don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings - serial killings. We've got a serial killer. Love those, there's always something to look forward to."  
"Why? Why are you saying that?" Lestrade added.  
"Where's her case? Come on, where  
is it? Did she eat it? Someone else was here - and they took the case. So the killer must have driven her here - forgot the case was in the car ..."  
"Maybe she checked into her hotel, left her case there."  
"She never made it to her hotel Look at her hair - colour co- ordinates her lipstick and her shoes, she'd never have left a hotel with her hair still like—" he stops. He just stops. He claps his hands together. "Oh... oh!" He exclaims.  
"Sherlock?" John asks. Sherlock bounded down the stairs.  
"What? What is it?" Lestrade questions  
"Serial killers, always hard. You've got to wait for them to make a mistake ..."  
"We can't just wait!!" Lestrade snapped  
"Oh, we're done waiting. Look at her! Really, look! Houston, we have a mistake!"  
Everyone looks back at the pink clad woman.  
"Get on to Cardiff, find Jennifer Wilson's family and friends - find Rachel."  
"Of course, yes. But what mistake?"  
"Pink!" Sherlock exclaims and shoots out the door. John quickly ran after him.  
"Ok let's get on with it!" Anderson yells after looking at you for a moment. They'd just... left you.


	3. 22 Northumberland Street

You exited the decrepit house and looked around. There was police officers bustling everywhere but no sign of your brother or the pompous prick that is Sherlock Holmes. You sighed. It didn't suprise you that Sherlock would leave you, but you didn't think John would go without you. Donovan stood at the tape boundary again.   
"He's gone." She announced  
"Who Sherlock?"  
"He just took off- he does that."  
"Is he coming back?"  
"Didn't look like it."  
"Great." You muttered. You decided it would be a good idea to try and get a cab from the main road, so you started to move away.  
"Hey." Donovan called after you. "You're not his friend, he doesn't have friends. So who are you?" She asked  
"I'm John's sister. I've only just had the displeasure of meeting him." You replied  
"Bit of advice then. Stay away from that guy." You blinked  
"Why would I do that?"  
"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. Weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there." You looked at her in disbelief. Was she really that stupid?  
"And why would he do that?"  
"Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored." You laugh inwardly.  
"Donovan!" Lestrade called her. She began to leave you, but not without one final warning.  
Stay away from Sherlock Holmes  
Her words echoed around your skull as you made your way to hail a cab. 

As you made your way up the street, a phone rang. You looked around but no one else was around. There was one phone box two or so metres ahead of you. You decided to answer it. "Hello?" You speak, kicking yourself for answering a pay phone where anyone could be on the line. It was strange and that's why it intrigued you. A smooth voice that sounded like it could cut through butter. It was... very distinct.  
"There is a security camera at the top right corner of the building opposite you. Do you see it?" The voice mused almost.  
"Sorry, who's this? Who's speaking?" You say  
"Do you see the camera, Miss. Watson?" The voice said again. You sighed and looked. In the darkness you could only just make out the camera.  
"Yes." You reply annoyance seeping into your tone.  
"Watch." The voice commanded. As you watched the camera it slowly points away from him, now looking up the other side of the street.  
"There is a another camera on the footbridge to your left. Do you see it?"  
You looked for the other camera, and as you spotted it it turned away again. You started analysing, who could this be?  
"And finally, at the top of the streetlamp two along, on your right." You followed the instructions and again, the camera moved.  
A black limousine pulled up outside the payphone box.  
"Get into the car, Miss. Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you." You sighed irritably and slammed down the phone. You climbed into the back of the car. 

Sat across from you was a brunette woman in a business suit, tapping away on her phone. You knew that you'd get nowhere with asking questions so you stayed silent, deducing your way out of this. Limo- rich, evidentially. Control of the surveillance cameras- hacker? No. Doubt that. Government? Probable. What would a government agent want with you? What's with all the secrecy? For once you were stumped, but once you were where they wanted you to be you'd be able to figure it out. 

The limo pulled into an industrial estate. Warehouses, containers - deserted, desolate, creepy.  
The driver opened the door for you, and you stepped out. It was cold. The woman in the suit lead the say silently, heading along the corridor. She opened the door that lay at the end of the corridor, and gestured for you to enter. You walk through. 

It's a big empty space. Sitting there, some distance aways was a man sitting on a chair, waiting for you. There was another chair sitting opposite to him, clearly intended for you. The man wore a good suit, and looked entirely out of place. He was flicking through a notebook, and didn't look up when you entered. When he spoke you realise it is the voice you heard on the phone.  
"Have a seat, Miss Watson." He says. Before you sit, you stare at him, deducing what this is about.  
"You know, I've got a phone. Very clever, all that, but you could just phone me on my phone..." you said, uninterested.  
"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet. Hence this place."  
"So this is about Sherlock. I was right." You sighed.  
"You don't seem very afraid."  
"You don't seem very frightening." You spat back.  
"Very brave." He smiled. "Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think. What is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?"  
"I don't have a connection with Sherlock Holmes. I met him yesterday. And if I'm honest, he's a prick."  
"And you're already solving crimes with him. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" Your face grew red.  
"Yeah, no." You snapped.  
"Are you not going to ask who I am?"  
"No, because I already know."  
"Oh do enlighten me."  
"Mycroft Holmes. Brother to Sherlock Holmes."  
"Oh?"  
Your phone pinged twice in a row  
Where the hell are you?  
John  
BAKER STREET. COME AT ONCE IF CONVENIENT.  
SH.  
You roll your eyes.  
"Hope I'm not distracting you." He said.  
"Not distracting me at all, no." You confirmed.  
"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"  
"He lives with my brother. I have no choice. And as far as I remember, and I could be  
wrong, but I think that's none of your business."  
"It could be."  
"It really couldn't." You began to stand.  
"If you do move in to Baker Street with them, I would be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money, on a regular basis, to ... ease your way."  
You sighed.  
"I'm not spying on your brother. You're government. Find another way."  
Another text.  
IF INCONVENIENT COME ANYWAY  
SH  
"No." You said to the phone as much as to Mycroft.  
"I haven't mentioned a figure."  
"And you don't have to. I don't want your money."  
"You're very loyal, very quickly."  
"No I'm not I'm just not interested. Are we done?"  
"You tell me."  
With that you began walking away. Maybe this time you'd not get kidnapped and could actually find a cab.  
"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him. But I can see from your left hand, that isn't going to happen."  
"Oh piss off Mycroft." You flipped him off with the same left hand he mentioned.  
"Time to pick a side, (y/n)."  
You left, outside the suited woman was waiting.  
"I'm to take you home."  
Ping  
Could be dangerous  
SH  
Ping  
Can you please come over?  
John  
The woman seemed to be getting impatient.  
"Address?" She sighed.  
"Baker street. 221B." You said irritably after a long silence. Who's text swayed you, you couldn't care less and you didn't want to think about it, but it was getting late and you hadn't yet found a place to stay. 

The limo pulled up outside and you stepped out, closing the door behind yourself. You watched the black car zoom into the night, almost cloaked by the darkness of the streets.  
You enter 221B and ascend the stairs the door again was ajar. The room was in half-light. Sherlock, sprawled on a sofa, seemingly in dreamy contemplation. He was surrounded by paper, his laptop open on his chest, with his PDA and his phone. Looks like he hasn't moved in hours.

John pops his head around the corner, from the kitchen. "(Y/n)!" He smiled. He came around the corner with a mug of tea in hand. "Sorry I ran off with Sherlock earlier he was just so into it and I needed to make sure he didn't run in front of a car."  
You nodded. "Yeah it's fine."  
You looked over to Sherlock. He hadrolled up one sleeve and was fiddling with something on his exposed forearm.  
"What the hell are you doing?"  
"Nicotine patch, helps me think! Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days - bad news for brain work."  
"Good news for breathing." John muttered.  
"Oh, breathing - breathing's boring."  
"Three patches?" You prod.  
"It's a three patch problem."  
He just lay there, now ignoring you and John. He was staring at the ceiling.  
"Well?" You prod again. He just continued to stare at the ceiling. "You asked me to come so I'm assuming it's important."  
"Oh, yes, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"  
"My phone...?" What?  
"Don't want to use mine - always a chance the number'll be recognised. It's on the website."  
"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone. Johns got a phone." You say, burning with anger.  
"Yes but Mrs Hudson is downstairs, I tried shouting but she didn't hear me. Johns number is also on the website."  
"I was on the other side of London!" You yelled.  
"There was no hurry." You growl in frustration and slam your phone into his hand.  
"I'm assuming this is about the case."  
"Her case." He stated  
"The suitcase.."  
"Her suitcase, yes, obviously! The murderer took her suitcase. The first big mistake."  
"Stop speaking to me like I'm stupid." You growl.  
"Ok, he took her case. So?" John asks  
"... it's no use. There's no other way, we'll have to risk it. There's a phone number on my desk - I want you to send a text."  
"You brought me here. To. Send. A. Text." You say, breathing to try and control your urge to strangle him.  
"Yes a text! The number on the desk!"  
You walk over to the desk.  
"What's wrong? You are acting angry." Sherlock states.  
"No shit! You pulled me all the way from the other side of London after I have to put up with your dick of a brother!"  
"You met my brother?" You could see his ears practically prick up. "... did he offer you money to spy on me?"  
"Yes." You sighed exasperatedly.  
"Did you take it?"  
"Did I fuck take it! No I didn't!"  
"Pity. We could've split the fee. Think it through next time."  
"Oh fuck off!" You wanted to slap him.  
"Your sister needs to mind her language." he said with a devilish grin.  
"You need to watch your throat before I put my hands around it and strangle you."  
John smiles at you.  
"She doesn't take shit from anyone Sherlock."  
"Are you entering the numbers on the desk?"  
"Yes fucking hell give me a second."  
"Have you done it?"  
"Yes."  
"Now these words exactly. "What  
happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come."" You type the exact words he said and sent them.  
"You blacked out?" John asked.  
"What? No."  
Sherlock had sprung up by this point, and went to the kitchen and he had returned with a pink case. Her pink case, just as he described, wheeled with an extendable handle.  
"That's ... that's the pink lady's case ... Jennifer Wilson's case..." John says, confusion plastering his face.  
"Yes, of course it is. Oh, I should probably mention that I didn't kill her." He says, mainly directed at you.  
"Didn't say you did." You say.  
"Why not? Given the text I just had you send, and the fact I have this case, it would be a perfectly logical assumption."  
"Yes but I'm not an idiot. Do people usually assume that you're the murderer?"  
"Now and then, yes."  
"... Okay... So how did you get this?" John interjects again.  
"By looking."  
"Where?" Your older brother pressed, even he was getting frustrated.  
"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident, if it was in a car. No one could be seen with this case without attracting attention - particularly a man, which is statistically likely. So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it - wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake." You said. He was staring at you. "Just a guess." You add.  
He grimaced.  
"Yes... exactly..." it took him a moment to recover.  
"I checked every back street wide enough for a car within five minutes of Lauriston Gardens and looked for anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."  
"Pink. You got all that, cos you realised the case would be pink." John said, dumbfounded.  
"It had to be pink, John. It's kind of obvious." You say, sympathetically. You didn't want to make him feel too dumb.  
"Why didn't I think of that..." he muttered.  
"Because you're an idiot." Sherlock said. John looked stung by his words  
"Sherlock Holmes you take that back right now!" You snap.  
"Don't look like that - practically  
everyone is." He looked at you, you weren't an idiot. You were clever, far too clever for his liking. He gestured to the case. "Now look - do you see what's missing?" he mumbled.  
"From her case? How could I?" John said.  
"Her phone." You interjected.  
"Correct. Her phone. Where's her mobile  
phone. No phone on the body, no phone in her case. We know she has one - the number's right there, and you just texted it."  
"Maybe she left it at home." John snapped.  
"She has a string of lovers, and  
she's careful about it - she never leaves it at home." You say. You shoot John an apologetic look, you knew you were showing him up but you couldn't stop yourself. It had always been like this, since you were kids.  
"The question is, where is that phone now?"  
"She could've lost it." John said with reluctance to answer any more questions.  
"Yes. Or?" Sherlock pressed, you both wanted John to get this one so he wouldn't mope. He thought for a moment before answering  
"The murderer? You think the murderer has the phone?"  
"Maybe she left it in his car, when she left her case. Maybe he took it for some other reason. Either way, the balance of probability is that the murderer has her phone." Sherlock said with a smile.  
"Sorry, what are we doing here. Did  
we just text a murderer? What good does that do?!" He seemed panicked.  
And right on cue, your phone rang.  
John snatches it up, looks at the number on the screen -- -- and his eyes go to the luggage tab on the case.  
"A few hours since his last victim - and now he's got a text which can only be from her ... Now someone who'd just found the phone would ignore a text like that. But the murderer would panic." Sherlock states as the phone abruptly stopped ringing.  
"John we need milk. Can you go get some?" Sherlock asked.  
"We're midway through solving a murder and you're all of a sudden worrying about milk?" He sighed  
"Fine." John grabbed his coat and left.  
Sherlock sprung to his feet and put his own coat on.  
"Have you talked to the police?" You ask.  
"Four people are dead - there isn't time to talk to the police."  
"Then why are you talking to me?" You ask  
"Mrs. Hudson took my skull."  
"So I'm basically filling in for your skull- of course."  
"Don't worry, you're doing a better job than it would've anyway. The only pro to the skull is it doesn't try to one up me. Well?"  
"Oh that's what you think I was trying to do?" You laugh bitterly. "Well what?"  
"Well you could just sit here and watch telly..."  
"You want me to come with you?"  
"I prefer company when I go out - I think better aloud, and the skull just attracts attention."  
You hesitated. "Problem?" He asks.  
"Sargent Donovan."  
"What about her?"  
"She said you get off on this. You enjoy it."  
"And I said "dangerous". And here you are."  
He turns and leaves. You consider for a moment.  
"Damn it!" You cursed as you ran after him.

"Northumberland Street?" You ask as you catch up with him. He was tall. 6ft roughly. He practically towered you.  
"Five minutes walk from here." He said, almost like a satnav, monotone and robotic.  
"You think he's stupid enough to go there?"  
"No, I think he's brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones - they're so desperate to get caught."  
"Appreciation and applause.." you say.  
"At long last, the spotlight! That's the frailty of genius, (y/n)- it needs an audience." He jumps onto a low wall and spreads him arms as he says this. You smile cynically at the theatrics. Sherlock is now looking around, the bustling town, people scattered everywhere with a few of them staring at this strange man.  
"This is his hunting ground. Right here in the heart of the city. We now know the victims were abducted, and that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from crowded places, from busy streets - but nobody saw them go. They walked out of their lives with a complete stranger, and trusted him right to the moment they swallowed his poison. He can do the impossible, this one - he needs to take a bow."  
"If it is a 'he'. The pink lady wrote "Rachel"..."  
"Yes. That's odd. 'Til we know who Rachel is, no point in speculating. Mustn't theorise in advance of the facts." Sherlock skips off the wall. "Think, though, think! Who do we trust, even if don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?" You looked at him as if waiting for him to continue. "Haven't the faintest. Hungry?" He says. He turns and continues striding along the street.

We arrive at Northumberland street and Sherlock steers you in the direction of a shabby looking Italian restaurant named Angelo's.  
"Hello Mr. Holmes." A young waiter said with a smile as he showed him to a table by the window.  
"Thank you Billy." Sherlock said as he took a seat.  
The waiter, Billy. Whisks away the reserved sign.  
You both look out onto the street.  
"22 Northumberland Street." He points. "Keep an eye on it."  
"Sherlock!" What you assumed to be the owner of the restaurant and the man it's named after Angelo (as affirmed by his name tag) said joyously. He was small and greasy looking, but he seemed happy to see Sherlock.  
"Anything on the menu, whatever you  
want, free! All on the house, you and your date."  
Your face turned red.  
"Do you want to eat?" Sherlock asked you.  
"I'm not his date."  
Angelo threw his arms around Sherlock, suddenly making Sherlock look extremely uncomfortable.  
"This man! Got me off a murder charge!" He laughed.  
"This is Angelo. Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade that at the time of a particularly vicious triple-murder, Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking." He clarified. You just nodded, feeling awkward.  
"He cleared my name." You could tell he was thankful.  
"I cleared it a bit. Anything happening opposite?"  
"We've been keeping an eye out." Angelo showed him a phone with a photo displayed on the small screen.  
"Oh, he's just drunk." He squints at the photo. "Also married with a dog."  
"We all are, in the end." Angelo chuckled slightly.  
"Married. With a dog." Sherlock repeats.  
"I'm on the case!" Angelo smiles, and then he turns to you. "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."  
"You did goto prison." Sherlock reminded him.  
"I get you a candle for the table -more romantic!" Angelo smiled.  
"I'm not his date!" You shout after him. Angelo ignored your protests and brought the candle anyway along with two menus.  
"You may as well eat - we might have a long wait." But Sherlock had already discarded his menu and was consumed by his own thoughts again. You set yours to the side and sat there awkwardly. 

"So do you have a girlfriend or a boyfriend?" You asked in attempt to make small talk. Sherlock opened one eye and looked at you with one eyebrow raised.  
"No." He says before returning back to his thoughts.  
"Right. Okay. Unattached. Like me. Fine, good."  
"(Y/N) you should know, I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest I'm really not looking for any kind of-"  
You flushed bright red.  
"No! I wasn't asking you out!" You grabbed your hair in frustration. "It was small talk."  
"Oh well. I don't do small talk. Look across the street." Sherlock was looking raptly across the street. You follow his gaze.  
A taxi. Outside 22 Northumberland street! A shadowy figure inside seems to be craning to look out the window.  
"In a taxi! That's clever! Is it clever? Why's that clever?" He questions himself.  
"That's him!" You say excitedly.  
"Don't stare!" Sherlock says.  
"You're staring!"  
"Well we cant both stare." You turn away begrudgingly.  
And with that Sherlock is in his feet and striding out of the restaurant. He got his phone out, at first it looked like he was texting but on closer inspection he was sneaking a closer look of the taxi. A shadowy face looks at Sherlock through the taxi window. The two stared for a moment before the taxi started up and started to pull away.  
Sherlock shut his eyes and started visualising a way to catch up.  
"Left turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights ..." he mumbled to himself.  
London streets, as lifted from a map, are snaking across your vision. A dark gray line, following the taxi's likely path, is zigzagging round the blocks.  
And now another line, a red one, streaks across the map, slicing through the blocks, chasing the black line, but a shorter route - not a straight line, but fewer twists and deviations. The route you could take on foot. Sherlocks eyes flew open and looked across the road following your red line that you'd already started running towards. There was someone walking across that you bathed past. "Sorry!" You yelled over your shoulder as Sherlock began to run after you. 

Somehow you and Sherlock had ended up on the rooftops, running after the taxi. You leap from roof to roof. Second behind Sherlock. We climb down a fire escape and into a dead end. Damn it.  
Sherlock starts pounding towards a theatre stage door. You smile and make chase. A stage hand is outside smoking.  
"Oi!" He shouts as you and Sherlock barge through the door!  
"Sorry!" You shout back.

Sherlock came crashing out of the theatre, cannoning straight into a man walking by the pavement. He just shoved past him raced across the road. You helped the man up and followed after him. He took a side street and you followed close behind. The side street came to an end, joining onto the main road so did the both of you. Sherlock ran in front of the taxi and it screeched to a halt a few centimetres in front of him.  
Sherlock marched round the side of the taxi and slammed a card against the driver's window, yelling.  
"Police! Pull over, now! Pull over!" The driver complies.  
"Open up, come on, now!" He practically tears the passenger door open. You look in a faintly startled man sits inside. He's tanned, good looking, surrounded by cases. Sherlock frowns.  
"No! Teeth, tan, what, Californian? LA, Santa Monica, just arrived."  
"The luggage..." you murmur.  
"Oh, and your first trip to London probably - going by your destination, and the route this driver has taken you."  
"Sorry are you guys the police?" The man asks in a think American accent.  
"Yes. Is everything all right?" Sherlock asked.  
"Yeah...?" The guy was rightfully confused.  
"Welcome to London." He says, striding off.  
"Any problems let us know..." you added, then following Sherlock. 

He walked in silence as you laughed. "Welcome to London!" You quoted. "Poor man." He snickered slightly himself.  
"Before when you started running." He said, looking at you.  
"Yeah?" You ask, looking back. For once you actually looked at him. Not deducing him, just looking. He was attractive. Really, really attractive. His icy blue eyes seemed warm at this moment. His high cheekbones, cutting through the darkness. You blushed, but shook it off. What on Earth were you thinking?  
"You were visualising. Weren't you?" You nodded.  
"You are like me then..."  
"You doubted me?"  
"Slightly." He smiled and exhaled slightly, almost a laugh. He let out a cloud of smoke like air into the cold night. You smiled. All too soon this pleasant walk came to an end as you returned to the door of 221B at roughly 9pm. 

You both stood at the door for a moment looking at eachother, he leant forwards slightly and your face grew hot and red. You stood there like that for a moment, nothing happening, just looking and thinking that he might just brush his lips on yours, you were pulled back to reality by the door opening and John standing on the other side.  
"Where the bloody hell have you two been." He snapped angrily as Sherlock resumed his upright position.


	4. A Study In Pink

You both follow John in to the apartment with your tails between your legs. When you reached the top of the stairs the apartment was buzzing with life. Or more specifically buzzing with police dressed in full crime scene gear.  
"Oh, Sherlock, what have you done??" Mrs Hudson asked, her eyes teary.   
"What are you doing!?" Sherlock demanded angrily.   
"Well I knew you'd find the case, I'm not stupid." Lestrade stated. Wrong you thought.   
"You can't just break into my flat!"  
"You can't withhold evidence, and I didn't break into your flat."  
"Well what do you call this??" John snapped.   
"A drugs bust."   
You lift your eyebrow. Drugs. Of course you missed one huge detail. John obviously knew about this. He shook his head. "I thought you were clean."   
"I am!" Sherlock protested.  
"I am not your sniffer dog." He snarled at Lestrade.  
"No! Anderson's my sniffer dog."  
Sherlock span around. Anderson is one of the policemen. He's searching the kitchen. He gave Sherlock a little wave.  
"What's he doing here? On a drugs bust?" Sherlock snapped.  
"I volunteered." He smiles at you. Gross.  
"They all did. They're not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they're very keen."   
Donovan approached with a beaker of... eyes?  
"Are these human eyes?" She asked, disgusted.   
"Put those back!"   
"They were in the microwave."  
"It's an experiment!"  
"Keep looking, guys." He turned to Sherlock. "Or you could start helping me properly, and I'll stand them down."  
"This is childish!" Sherlock exclaimed.  
"I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case I'm letting you in, but you don't go off on your own - clear?"  
"What, so you set up a pretend drugs bust, to bully me?" He spat  
"Stops being pretend if they find anything."  
"I'm clean." He said.  
"Is your flat? All of it?" Lestrade prodded.   
"I don't even smoke!" Sherlock protested, rolling up his sleeve to show the nicotine patches on his arm. Lestrade copied him to show his own patch.  
"Neither do I! So let's work together. We've found Rachel."  
"Who is she?"  
"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."  
"Her daughter. Why would she write her daughter's name, why?"  
"Never mind that, we found the case." He turned his attention to Sherlock. "According to someone the murderer has the case - and here it is, in the hands of our favourite psychopath."  
"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson - I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research!" You could tell Anderson being present just pissed Sherlock off.  
"You need to bring Rachel in, you need to question her. I need to question her." He says to Lestrade.  
"She's dead." Lestrade grimaces.   
"Excellent! How? When? Is there a connection? There has to be!"  
"I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's still born daughter fourteen years ago." 

Sherlock looked completely winded. This didn't make sense to him at all.   
"No. No, that's not right. Why would she do that?"  
"Why would she think of her daughter in the her last moments. Yeah, sociopath, seeing it now." You glared at Anderson and he seemed to back down.  
"She didn't think about her  
daughter, she scratched her name on the floor. She was dying, it took effort, it would've hurt - she was trying to tell us something!"  
"You said the victims all took the poison themselves. Somehow he makes them take it. Maybe he ... I dunno, talks to them. Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow..." John suggested.   
"Oh, but that was ages ago - why would she still be upset?"  
You and John looked at each other and cringed   
"Not good?" Sherlock asked you both.  
"Bit not good." You confirmed.   
"Yes, but listen! If you were dying, if you'd been murdered, in your very last seconds, what would you say." He paced frantically.  
"Please god let me live." John said.  
"Oh use your imagination!"   
"I don't have to." He said grimly. You glared at Sherlock and placed a hand on your brothers shoulder. He shook it off and smiled at you.  
"Yes, but if you were clever, if you were very clever... Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers. She was clever, and she's telling us something!"  
Mrs. Hudson is entered the flat again.   
"Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock."  
"I didn't order a taxi." He snapped. "Go away."  
Mrs Hudson took a look around the flat.  
"Oh dear, they're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"  
"It's a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson." John stated.  
"Oh, but they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers." She said, raising her hands.  
Sherlock was pacing the room like a whirlwind. Alive, energised. He's nearly got it, he's nearly there!  
"Shut up! Everybody shut up, I'm thinking, don't move, don't breathe, Anderson, face the other way, you're putting me off!" Sherlock bellowed.  
The policemen looked at him, confused - but Lestrade knew the signs.  
"What, my face is?" Anderson exclaimed.   
"Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back."  
"For God's sake-"  
"Your back, now, please!"  
Anderson turned his back, furious, embarrassed.  
Sherlock paced faster and faster, thinking, thinking, clutching his head   
"Come on, come on!!" He said to himself  
"What about your taxi-" Mrs Hudson said again.  
"Mrs. Hudson!!" Sherlock shouted.   
Mrs. Hudson was startled into silence. John put his arm around her.  
"Oh, she was clever. Clever, yes, I love her! She's cleverer than you lot dead! Do you see? Do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted in on him. When she got out that car, she knew she was going to her death - she left the phone to lead us to her killer!"   
"But how?" Lestrade said, obviously annoyed that he wasn't getting it.  
"What do you mean, how? Rachel, don't you see? Rachel!! Oh, look at you lot, you're all so vacant! What's it like, not being me, it must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name."   
You instantly clicked. Oh... oh!  
"Getting it, (y/n)?" Sherlock asked with a grin.  
"John, the luggage label, it had an email address on it." You say, pressing your hands to your head as if stimulating your thoughts. John gets up and looks at the tag.  
"Jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk." He says, making sure you enunciate every dot.   
"I've been too slow, she didn't have a laptop, which means did her business on her phone. So it's a smartphone, it's email enabled. So there's a website for her account." Sherlock was in his laptop, on an email site called mephone. The site hosted a picture of a mephone and two blank boxes for a username and password.   
"The user name will be the email address..." he types rapidly. "- and all together password is ... ?"  
"Rachel." John replies.  
"So we can read her emails - so what?" Anderson snapped.  
"Don't talk out loud, Anderson, you lower the IQ of the whole street. We can do more than read her emails-" He continues working, leaving you to explain.  
"It's a smartphone, it's got GPS. And if you lose it ..."   
On his screen was a page find my mephone. There's a button, refresh location. He clicks it  
"... you can locate it online." He finished  
"You know it's weird how you two finish each others sentences." Anderson muttered.  
Your phone will be located in under three minutes. A little clock-face, with the arms spinning informed you.   
"She's leading us right to the man who killed her." You smiled. "Brilliant!"  
"Unless he got rid of it." Lestrade interjected. Do you ever shut up? We know he didn't. You thought.  
"We know he didn't." John said. Clever boy.  
Sherlock was drumming his thumbs on the laptop impatiently.  
"Oh come on! Hurry up!" He willed.  
"Sherlock, dear this taxi driver!" Mrs Hudson urged.  
"Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" He snapped back, springing up from the laptop.   
"Get some vehicles ready, get a helicopter, we need to move fast - that phone battery won't last forever." He says to Lestrade.   
John sits by the laptop, willing the search to go faster.  
"We'll just have a map reference, not a name!" Lestrade said, rolling his eyes with a sigh.   
"It's a start!" Both you and Sherlock shout back, yours a softer reassurance, his a demand. You lock eyes for a moment, then shake it off and look away. John stares at you both. It scares him how alike the two of you are, but he daren't say it to either of you.  
He turns his attention back to the screen.   
"Sherlock...?" He says gently.  
"It narrows it down from anyone in London, it's the first proper lead we've had." Sherlock droned on.  
"Sherlock!" He finally turns to look at John.   
"Where is it, where? Quickly!" The tall man ushered. He joined John at the screen, and began to stare. He frowned, this forehead creasing.  
"What...?" He mumbled.  
"It's here... it's in 221B Baker Street." John frowned too. You rushed to look. The graphic of the clock was no more, instead the screen displayed a map of London, with a target symbol hovering over Baker Street.  
"But it can't be. How can it be here? How??" He said, clenching his fists in anger, his knuckles turning white.   
"Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back - fell out somewhere." Lestrade suggested.  
"Really?" You sigh. He looks at you. Oops that wasn't meant to be out loud.   
"And I didn't notice. Me?? I didn't notice?" He said, emphasising the fact there was no possibility of him missing that.  
"And I texted the number and got a call back." You say moving your hands a lot. This was exhilarating. Much better than the cold cases you had dealt with. It was now. The case was still happening and you were nearly there, just a final push. There was pressure. You liked that.   
"Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here - belonged to the victim..." Lestrade ordered the police officers that had been standing around observing Sherlock and you, marvelling at your brilliance. You observe Sherlock, he is deep in thought, not listening to anyone but his own thoughts. He's staring at Mrs Hudson, but not her, no, something behind her. He seems entranced, and you almost are too, in your own thoughts. You just couldn't grasp it.   
"(Y/N)? Are you ok?" John asks. Your head was spinning, you felt dizzy. You stumbled, and he quickly reached out an arm to steady you. You cling on to him for dear life. To be honest, your brain wasn't at full capacity, you hadn't slept in days and today's feats had worn you down. You tried to stand up. "I'm fine." You try to assure, but then your knees buckled and your vision turned to black.

When you woke up, the apartment was empty, except from a worried looking John, sat next to you. You sat up.  
"(Y/N)!" Johns breathed a sigh of relief.   
Suddenly your thoughts became clear. You jolted up from the couch.  
"Where's Sherlock?"   
"Woah! Take it easy! You just passed out!" John tried to ease you but you wouldn't let him.   
"Where. Is. Sherlock!" You shouted.   
"I don't know, he left just after you passed out. He said he was going for some air."   
You opened the laptop and pulled up find my mephone   
"The cabbie." You say.   
"The cabbie?" John asked quizzically. "What are you on about? You need to go back to bed-" you cut him off as he reached for you.  
"Sherlocks cab! The one he didn't order! He's the murderer!" You say willing the laptop to work quicker. "We need to find him!" John let out a staggered breath.  
"Damn it Sherlock!" He cursed. The clock hands whirled once again. You willed it to go faster. Ping  
Roland-Kerr further education college. Perfect.   
"We need to get there, now!" You grabbed your coat from your Johns room. His gun caught your eye. You grabbed it and put it in your coat, both you and John got a cab and asked the driver to go as fast as possible. 

The cab ride was tense. John was shouting over the phone. "No, Detective Inspector Lestrade.  
I need to speak to him, it's important, it's an emergency." He turned to the driver.  
"Left here, left!" The driver swerved just in time. Good job it was so late at night and practically no one was out. 

The cab pulled up, and you hopped out, and stared at the two buildings. Which one? Which one?! Think (y/n) a mans life depends on this!  
You didn't think. You just ran straight ahead. No time to think. You took the building straight ahead and John followed you.   
Your footsteps thudded down the stone corridor. John starts kicking open doors and shouting for Sherlock. You keep running straight ahead. If he finds anything he'd shout you.   
And he did. You ran to your brothers side as you both watched in horror. Sherlock stood there, staring at the pill. The Taxi Driver, looking up at him, smiling and malevolent. The windows between you feel like barriers. You scream.   
Wrong building. You kick yourself. YOUVE made yourself a helpless spectator. No not helpless.   
"Sherlock!" John shouts, as if he could hear.   
Sherlock inspects the pills. What is he doing!?  
With trembling hands he brings the pill closer to his mouth.   
Bang  
Without thinking you pulled Johns gun, raised it and aimed for the cabbie. Two sets of glass shattered. Two windows. The barriers between you and the other building.   
Sherlock staggerd back in shock, the pill falling from his hand. He looked to the Taxi Driver clutching at his chest, blood spurting, he's choking. He makes a flailing grab at the table - then sends it crashing as he falls to the floor. Sherlock was in total shock. He looked to the window. Who did that, who shot??  
You drop the gun, and look at your shaking hands. Your knees and John holds you.   
"(Y/N)! (Y/N)!" He shouts, but you can't hear him, all you can hear is this ringing in your ears. High pitched and unending. You clutch your head in both hands as you bend towards. You can hear screaming.  
The world went black. It didn't click that you were the one screaming.

Johns arms were wrapped around you as stood with him. You had collected the gun and fled as to avoid being questioned by the police. You spot Sherlock in the back of an ambulance holding a cup of coffee wrapped in an orange shock blanket.

Sherlock's p.o.v

"Why do I have this blanket? They keep putting a blanket on me." I ask Lestrade as I attempt to shake it off again.   
"It's for shock." He smirked with a small laugh.  
"I'm not in shock!"  
"Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs." I shoot him a cold look, then direct my gaze to the window. "So, the shooter. No sign of him."   
"Cleared off by the time we got here. A guy like that would've had enemies, I suppose. One of them could've been following him. But we've got nothing to go on..." Lestrade sighed.   
"Oh I wouldn't say that..." I smile.  
Lestrade gave me that "here we go again." look as he retrieved his notebook from his right pocket.   
"Ok, give me what you've got."  
"The bullet they just dug out the  
wall was from a hand gun. A kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon - that's a crack shot you're looking for. But not just a marksmen, a fighter - his hand couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire 'til I was in immediate danger, though. So, strong moral principles..." I recite, looking over to John holding a shaking (y/n). Or she...   
"Actually, you know what - ignore me."  
"I'm sorry?" Lestrade looks bemused   
"Ignore all that. It's the uh- shock talking." I say already approaching John and (y/n).

Y/N p.o.v

Sherlock walked towards you and John. You can't stop shaking.   
"We need to get her home, now." Sherlock said, grabbing your elbow and pulling you away.   
"Sherlock!" John said. "She's in shock! She needs medical attention!" Sherlock angrily hushed him.   
"She killed a man." Sherlock snapped. Those words made your chest feel hollow. "We need to get her out of here before she gets interrogated, that'd be worse for her." John sighed, he hated to admit it, but Sherlock was right. He didn't want to see his baby sister go to jail. The men hurried you into the back of a cab and back to Baker Street.

You awoke in a foreign room, the room wasn't dark, but it wasn't light. The walls were white and green, in the typical Victorian style wallpaper. On your right side there was a periodic table of elements. You sat up. The room smelt musky. It smelt like Sherlock. Coffee, cedar wood and cinnamon you're sure you could also smell a splash of lemon. There was a small layer of dust on the desk. It was obvious he didn't use this room much. You stood up, your legs shaking slightly. Above the bed was a certificate for a marshal art- judo. You stood at the door. You could hear Sherlock and John arguing in hushed tones.  
"My sister killed a man because of your stupidity!" John snapped. "She's a wreck!"   
"I didn't ask her to do that!"  
"She saved your damn life. You could at least be grateful!" A silence fell. "You know what? I was starting to think you and her were scarily alike... but she's nothing like you. She's actually human." A door slammed... John left.  
You stepped out.  
"You heard that didn't you?" Sherlock asked before even turning to see you. You nodded.  
"Yeah I did..." you sighed wish I hadn't though.  
"I'll make some tea..." Sherlock sighed too.  
"Thank you." You sat on the couch. You close your eyes  
Steady hands.  
Bang  
Shaking hands   
Sherlocks face.  
"(Y/N)! (Y/N!)" 

"(Y/N)?" Sherlock repeated. You jumped.   
"Sorry..." you shake it off.   
"You were thinking about it wasn't you?" You look down at your shaking hands.   
"Guess there's no lying my way out of this." You laugh bitterly. He placed your mugs on the table and sat next to you. His face softened.   
"I'm not..." he started. You looked at him. He didn't know how to start. "I'm not good at this..."  
You wait, patiently for him to gather his words.   
"Thank you." He sighs. "You saved my life. Without a second thought." You smile with a slight blush.  
"Yeah well I didn't do it for you, Johns seen enough death in his lifetime. He doesn't need another friend leaving him." You lie.  
"Liar." He smiles. "But yes, I agree." You pick up your coffee and take a sip.   
"Tastes like shit." You laugh.  
"It's best like that." He smiled, taking his own mug in hand. You sip in unison, and swallow then laugh together for a moment.   
"I suppose we should try and contact John." He adds.  
"I'll call him. I don't think he wants to hear from you right now." You say, retreating to the kitchen to add a few more sugars into your coffee.


	5. A Row With A Chip And Pin Machine

A few weeks later

You and Sherlock sat in the living room. You were reading and he was thinking. The door opened and John looked extremely disgruntled.   
"I didn't get the shopping." He said to the room in general. Both you and Sherlock turned your heads to look at him.   
"Why?" Sherlock asked.  
"I had a row in the shop. With the chip and pin machine." You cock an eyebrow at him.  
"You had a row with... a machine?" You repeat  
"Well, sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse. Have you got cash?" You roll your eyes at him with a small laugh.   
"Take my card." Sherlock said, nodding his head to the desk where his wallet sat.   
"You could always go yourself, you know. You've been sitting there all morning - you haven't moved since I went out." John said to the both of you as he retrieved the card. Sherlock completely blanked him.  
"What happened about that case you were offered? The Jaria diamond?"  
"Not interested. I sent them a message." John tuts at this nonchalant response and then leaves. You smile at Sherlock. He looks away. 

Neither of you had spoke about what happened that day again. Which was good, you didn't need reminding you had blood on your hands. He may of been a murderer, but he had children. You took a father out of the world and god knows you knew what it was like growing up without a father. Yours and John had left when you were five and John was ten. Even back then you could tell your mother was heartbroken and she couldn't quite explain why daddy wasn't coming home anymore. When you got to age twelve, you began to figure things out. He had been cheating, that was a given. 

Your father died when you were fifteen. Cancer. He had left you both money in his will, like it would make up for not knowing what happened to him for the entirety of your childhood. You never got that money though, not like that mattered to you, his psychotic second wife kept it all. That woman never liked you or your brother, and had stopped your father seeing you. "It's me or your kids." She had told him, not long after she had announced she was pregnant. Spoiler alert- she wasn't. He decided to stay with her and her imaginary child. On the day your father said goodbye to you both, you had told him that she wasn't pregnant. You were Thirteen. He scoffed.  
"How would you know anything about being pregnant, (y/n)?" He has scolded. But you knew. You were always the smartest one in the room, even as a toddler. You knew things. Deduction was an instinct for you, you hadn't learnt it. You had no clue where it came from, frankly your father was an idiot, your mother was smart and educated, but not like your intelligence. John was average at best. No your intelligence was also a reason your father left. He was scared of you, of the things you knew.   
"You smell like that lady again daddy."   
You always knew. There was no getting away from it. Eventually your mother had to open her eyes and stop pretending. She knew all along he was cheating but ignored it to stay happy. For her family. But you got on better when he had left.

You almost missed the funeral due to the psycho's (She had a name, but you only ever addressed her as that. ) plotting. She had told your mother the wrong date, but a colleague of your fathers had told your mother, and the look on her face when you arrived was priceless. You were asked to read at his funeral. A fifteen year old girl at her dads funeral would say something sweet, right? Not you. You chewed out the psycho on the spot, revealing what she had done to everyone. You had to be pulled away from the funeral kicking and screaming. Your mother was mortified, and little to say you were grounded for weeks. Deep down you knew she understood though, you knew she appreciated it. 

You shook yourself out of your trance when John returned, laden with bags of shopping. He slammed them onto the kitchen table and turned to look at Sherlock.   
"Is that my laptop!?" He asked  
"Of course." Sherlock plainly replied. John blinked.  
"Why?"  
"Mine is in the bedroom."  
"And you couldn't be bothered to get up?" Sherlock couldn't even be bothered to answer. You smiled, enjoying the free entertainment living with them brought. "It's password protected."  
"In a manner of speaking. Took me less than a minute to guess yours. Not exactly Fort Knox."  
"You guessed my password." John stared blankly. You think he'd be used to this by now.  
"There are forty-three."  
"What?"  
"Types of password. That people like you commonly use." You put down your book, fully investing yourself in this debate.  
"People like me?"   
"Ordinary." Sherlock sighed.  
"Stupid. Better change it."   
"There's really no point.." you chime in   
"No. I suppose."  
"I see you've started a blog." Sherlock points out.   
"You... you read it?" He says warily. Obviously he'd said some mean things. You laugh inwardly.  
"'Imperious'. Not a word I've ever been called before."  
"He said some nice stuff about you too, he said you knew some good restaurants." You slyly add, a mischievous smile playing on your lips. John groaned.   
"You read it too?"   
"'Pompous' has a 'U' in it." Sherlock says, looking at you and smiling too. Torturing your brother was a favourite pastime for the both of you.  
"Right. Thank you." John snatched the laptop from Sherlock, and snapping it closed. He went into the kitchen.  
"Cup of tea, please!" You shout to him.   
"Get it yourself, I'm putting away the shopping!" You sigh.   
"Nevermind." You has organised the fridge so that you all wouldn't be poisoned by Sherlock's "experiments". The flat had never looked cleaner. A woman's touch you think to yourself with a smile.   
"Keep the food away from the experiments." You laugh. 

After putting the shopping away John came back in to the living room and sinking into his chair with a stack of bills.  
"I need to get a job..." he sighed.  
"Oh. Dull!" Sherlock chimed.  
"Yeah. But necessary. If we want to eat actual food this month."  
"Oh eating normal food is overrated." You laugh.   
John looked at you and smiled, but his face quickly soured again as he looked back at the bills.  
"If you could see your way to lending me some..."  
There's no response.  
"Sherlock? Did you hear what I said?"   
Sherlock ignored him one more time. He jumped up from his seat.   
"I need to goto the bank." Sherlock said, grabbing his coat. You and John looked at eachother in disbelief.   
He appeared at the doorway again.   
"Well are you coming or not?" The two of you stand up and follow him.

You didn't pay attention on the ride over, your head was trying to take a break, you were practically comatose whilst in the taxi. No matter how much John poked and prodded at you, you wouldn't stir.  
But once you had pulled up outside of the bank, you snapped out of it. You blinked a few times, your eyes adjusting again.  
"Oh she lives then." John prodded at you with a smile. "You were really out of it, are you ok?"  
You nodded slowly.   
"Yeah..." you felt like you'd just slept for hours. Your brain was lagging. You got out of the cab and looked around. A gleaming sign reads: 'SHAD SANDERSON'. Investment Bank. 

Inside is modern, glass lifts; internal windows; multiple trading floors, all illuminated in bold colours - reds and blues. It was like Bloomberg's New York HQ - more like a nightclub than a bank.  
Banks of digital clocks herald the time in New York, London and Tokyo. London hit 12pm; Hong Kong hit 8pm; New York hit 7am. Simultaneously.  
Employees waved their badges at electronic eyes, setting security doors to swing open. It looked like you couldn't get to the toilets here without a pass.

"When you said we were going to the bank..." You trailed off, with a sigh. You and the two males stepped on to an escalator, which took you to a main reception area. Sherlock gave his name and immediately you were escorted to an office on the trading floor of the building. The plaque on the door read "SEBASTIAN WILKES."   
"Sherlock!" A man dressed in a suit, maybe an inch than Sherlock said as he strode in. Sebastian, you assumed, reached out and clasped Sherlocks Hans tightly. "How are you, buddy? How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"  
Clapped eyes on you you shuddered an internal cringe.   
"This is my friend, John Watson." He said. You looked slightly hurt ouch.  
"Friend?" A small smile twitched at the edges of Sebastians mouth.  
"Colleague." John shot back, lightning fast. Sebastian turned to gaze at you.   
"And who, is this vision of loveliness." He smiled, shaking your hand for a little too long. You could feel his uncomfortable gaze on every part of you.   
"This is my sister." John practically spat at Sebastian, which made the man retreat. "(Y/N) Watson."   
"Well lovely to meet you both! Grab a pew." He said, gesturing to the seats in front of his desk as he took his seat behind the desk. There was only two seats, taken by John and Sherlock. Sebastian smiled and shuffled back on his chair.   
"You can come sit on my lap if you'd like." He laughed. John looked infuriated but you stayed stone faced.   
"I'd rather not." You said. I'd rather sit on Sherlocks lap. Woah, what the fuck (y/n)? Where did that come from? A minute ago he had completely ignored your existence.   
"Need anything? Coffee? Water?" He scanned your faces. "No?" He turned to his PA, a woman in a purple dress. "We're all sorted here, thanks."   
"You're doing well. Spending lots of time abroad." Sherlock stated.   
"Well some." Sebastian said. Sherlock studied him closely.   
"Flying all the way round the world. Twice a month!"   
"You're doing that thing." He turned to you and John. "We were at Uni together, and this guy here - he had this trick he used to do."  
"It's not a trick." You and Sherlock said irritably. God you really have to stop that.  
"He could look at you and tell your whole life story." He said after a moment of looking bemused.  
"Yes, I've seen him do it." John said.  
"Put the wind up everyone. We hated him."  
John looked quietly delighted with this.  
"You'd come to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak - he would know who you'd been shagging the previous night." He looked at you when he said shagging. Disgusting.  
"I simply observed." Sherlock said, bored already.  
"Go on. Enlighten me. 'Two trips a month, flying all round the world'. You're quite right. But how could you tell?" Seb laughed.  
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but ...  
"Gonna tell 'em there's a stain on  
my tie - from a type of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?"  
"No, I-" Seb cut him off again.  
"Or maybe it's the mud on my shoes?"  
"I was chatting to your Secretary outside. She told me." This made Sebastian's arrogant smile fade and put one on yours. Brilliant.   
"I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break in." Seb said, all of a sudden, all business.

"Sir William's Office. The bank's  
former chairman. His room has been left here - like a sort of memorial..." he said, leading the three of you across to a new room. He scans a badge to unlock it.  
"Someone broke in here late last night."  
"What did they steal?" John asked  
"Nothing. They just left a little message."  
He flicked the lights on. Inside there was an air of sterility. No-one had been in here for a while.   
The decor was simple and very serious. An old leather-top desk - blotter, pen, brass lamp. The man who sat here has passed away - but the place has been left, like a museum. A gilt-framed oil painting: a portrait of a grim-faced banker.  
The plaque read: 'SIR WILLIAM SHAD. 1944-2009. CHAIRMAN.' But the picture had been vandalised...  
Someone had drawn a thick line across Sir William's eyes using bright yellow aerosol. The paint had dripped leaving a row of yellow tentacles. On the wall below the artist had left his tag. An illegible scrawl. Both you and Sherlock stared for a moment, before he was ushering you elsewhere to look at CCTV footage.

The four of you crowd around a small computer, Sherlock stood next to Sebastian, then John stood between you and Sherlock. The footage showed the office late last night. A still frame every 60 seconds. It lurches from one grainy shot to the next - the portrait just visible in the gloom.  
Then, miraculously, the paint suddenly appeared. Seb froze the picture at 11.34pm then flicked back to the previous still image, 11.33pm- no paint. Forward again. 11.34pm- paint.  
"Sixty seconds apart. So someone  
came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around - then left within a minute." Sebastian sighed.  
"How many ways into that office?" You ask.   
"That's where this gets really interesting." He said, leading you back down to the reception. He ushered away one of the women using a computer and brought up a of map of the trading floor, each room named with a red dot where each door would be. Keycard scanners, you recognised.   
"Every door that opens in this bank- it gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard. Every toilet."   
"That door didn't open last night?" Sherlock asked. Sebastian shakes his head.  
"There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you. Five figures." He said, brandishing a cheque.  
John looked impressed by the amount, Sherlock- not so much.   
"This is only an advance. Tell me how he got in - there's a bigger one on its way."  
"I don't need incentives, Sebastian."  
Sherlock refuses to even look at it. He breezed off to begin work. Seb was about to put the cheque away when John interrupted him.   
"He's kidding you, obviously. Shall I look after that for him...?"  
He tentatively took the cheque and glanced at it. He was almost winded; like he'd never seen that much money in his life.

Click. Sherlock photographed the vandalised portrait. Click. He photographed the tag on the adjacent wall. Sherlock explored Sir William's office. Looking out the window you realise there is access out onto a tiny private balcony/terrace. Five floors up - a vertiginous drop. Sherlock steps onto the balcony, observing. He then exits the room, out into the corridor of men and women on computers, answering phone calls. Sherlock was dancing... or so it looked like he was; moving around the trading floor, dodging and weaving in and out of the pillars. People stopped work to stare. He appeared to be studying the graffiti from all sorts of different angles.  
He darted into the office next door to the Sir William's. The sign outside it read: 'HONG KONG DESK HEAD'. 'EDWARD VAN COON' The walls are glass. He turned- there is a full, plain view of the painted graffiti from in here.  
"The New York market is opening... The New York market is now opening..." an announcement played.  
The London clock changed from 12.59 to 13.00. A bell rings.

You, John and Sherlock climbed into a glass lift.   
"'Two trips around the world this month.' You didn't ask his Secretary. You said that just to irritate him."  
You said as the doors closed. The three of you share a smile.  
"How did you-?" John asked.  
"Did you look at his watch?" You reply.  
"His watch?"  
"The hands on his watch were  
correct but the date was wrong. It actually said the day before yesterday. He crossed the date line twice, and didn't alter his watch." Sherlock explained.  
"Within a month? How d'you know that part?"  
"New Rolex. Only came out in February." Sherlock finished as the lift reached the bottom and the doors opened. The three of you strode out.  
"You think we should sniff around here a bit longer?" John asked.  
"Got everything I need to know already, thanks." The taller male said as he held his arm out to hail a cab.  
"That graffiti is a message. For someone at the bank - working on the trading floor. We find the intended recipient and..."  
"He'll to lead us to the person who sent it." John smiled. He's finally getting somewhere you think to yourself with a smile.  
"Obvious."   
"Three hundred people up there. Who was it meant for?" You murmur  
"Pillars."  
"What?" John says, with a face that says 'is he just spouting shit?'  
"The pillars. And the screens. Very few places where you could see the graffiti. That narrows the field considerably. And of course - the message was  
left at 11.34 last night. That tells us a lot."  
"Does it?"  
Sherlock looks at you, giving you the go ahead to show off. These looks had become more frequent as he learnt to trust your skills. You breathe.  
"Traders come to work at all hours.  
Some people trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight."  
Sherlock reached into his coat. He had stolen the name sign off the door: 'VAN COON'.  
"Not many Van Coon's in the phone book." 

And again, you were whizzing down the streets of London with your brother and sociopathic flatmate. You smile. Your life had been so dull and boring before this, and now, now you were getting somewhere. Now it was fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely can’t stop writing this! I’m having so much fun with it, I hope you are all enjoying it! Please let me know what you think about it!


	6. Why is everyone flirting with my sister?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter, but I’m trying to update daily and I had lots to do today! I’ll try make tomorrow’s longer!

You arrived at Van Coon's apartment block. Outdid was a set of buzzers, labelled with the names of the tenants. Eddie Van Coon lived on the sixth floor.  
Sherlock rang the buzzer. No answer. He rang again. Still no answer.  
"What are we gonna do now, then? Sit here and wait for him to come back?" John sighed.   
You checked the buzzers. The one directly above Eddie's- seventh floor - was labelled 'WINTLE'. The label was brand new.  
"Just moved in." You say, running your fingers over the new label.  
"What?" John asked.  
"Floor above. New label."  
John observed the pristine label on the buzzer.  
"They could have just replaced it." He states.  
"No one ever does that, John." Sherlock snapped. He rings the buzzer for the floor above, and is greeted by a woman's voice.   
"Hello?"  
"Hi. I live in the flat just below you. I don't think we've met." Sherlock says with a smile, trying to act kind and well human.  
"No. Well - I've just moved in."  
You and Sherlock cast a victorious glance at John.  
"I've actually locked my keys in my flat." Sherlock said, his voice convincingly playing the role of the ditz. It was almost charming.   
"You want me to buzz you in?"   
"Yes please... and can I use your balcony?"  
"What?" The woman's voice and Johns expression lined up perfectly.

The woman buzzed you all and you rode the lift to the sixth floor, where both John and yourself got off, but Sherlock took it to the seventh floor. His plan was to use the woman's balcony to lower himself onto Van Coon's balcony, then he would come and open the door and let you and John in. You and John looked at eachother in an awkward silence, not really knowing what to say.  
"So Sebastian liked me." You poke fun at him.  
"Yes I could very much tell. It's actually gross how he flirted with you like that."  
"Oh John, you're always so protective of me. Trust me, I was uncomfortable too." He smiled slightly.  
"I could tell." He turned to the door after hearing a loud bang.  
"Sherlock?" John asked. "Sherlock? Are you ok?"  
No answer.  
"Any time you feel like letting us in..." he muttered.  
The door unlocked.  
"Van Coon is dead." Sherlock said with a grim face. Sherlock reached for his phone and called Lestrade. You made a beeline for the bedroom with the broken door. Inside was a gun on the floor and a man with a small bullet hole in his temple. There was practically no blood spray, and there was very little mess. Unusual for a suicide.   
"You think maybe he'd lost a lot of money? Suicide rate is pretty high amongst these city boys." John says.  
"We don't know that it was suicide." You state. John guffawed.   
"Come on! His door was locked from the inside. Sherlock had to climb across the balcony!"  
You look over to Sherlock. He was crouched by Van Coon's suitcase that was adjacent to the bed. He pulled on some latex gloves, then popped open the suitcase. The police started to arrive and joined you all in the room they started their own search, leaving you to yours.   
"Been away. Three days, judging by the laundry. Look - something was packed tightly inside this case." He stated.  
"Thanks - I'll take your word for it." John grimaced.  
"What's the matter?" Sherlock frowned at him.   
"I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear." John snapped back. Sherlock shrugged, then stood up and strode to the body, inspecting it.  
"Those symbols at the bank - that graffiti. Why was it put there?" Sherlock muttered   
"You think it was some sort of code?" John asked  
"Obviously. But I'm saying why paint it? Why not use email if you want to make contact? Or the phone?" John thought for a second.  
"Maybe he wasn't answering..."  
"Good. You follow."  
"No." John gave an annoyed chuckle.  
"What sort of message would everyone try to avoid?" Sherlock says as he opened the dead mans mouth, spotting something inside. He delicately poked it.  
"What about this morning? Those letters you were looking at."   
"Bills?" John looked confused.   
"Yes. He was being threatened." You speculated.   
"Not by the gas board..." John murmured  
From the dead man's mouth Sherlock retrieved a small screwed up ball of black paper - moist with saliva. He stretched it open - it was blank.  
Just at that moment a police Inspector entered. You looked at him. He was smaller than Sherlock, fresh-faced, a newly promoted graduate you decided.   
"Ah, Sergeant... We haven't met." Sherlock held out his hand, but retrieved it when the man gave no sign of moving.  
"I know who you are. And I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence." He snapped. You blinked. This guy is cool. You smiled to yourself, looking over him. Sherlock looked almost offended. For some reason this tickled you and you let out a little snort, drawing everyone's eyes to you. You cleared your throat.   
"Sorry." You said, calming yourself down. You blushed red as everyone looked at you like you were insane. Sherlock put the black paper into an evidence bag and handed it to the detective.   
"I phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way...?" Sherlock asked. He sounded almost whiny, not that anyone else would notice that. He didn't like the fact that Lestrade seemed to be the only one who'd put up with his shit because he was brilliant.   
"He's busy. I'm in charge. And it's not Sergeant. It's Detective Inspector. Dimmock." The smaller man stated.   
"We're obviously looking at a suicide." Dimmock said as he faced the body.  
"It does seem the only explanation of the facts." John said  
"Wrong. It's one possible explanation of some of the facts. You've got a solution that you like... but you're just choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."  
"Like?"   
"The wound is on the right side of his head."  
"And?" DI Dimmock sighed.   
"Van Coon was left-handed." You observe  
Sherlock then mimed shooting himself in the right temple with his left hand, making a tangled mess of himself. "Requires a bit of contortion."  
"Left-handed?" Dimmock cocked a brow.  
"I'm amazed you didn't notice. All you have to do is look around this flat... tea stains from the bottom of mugs, where he's been resting them on the arm of that chair. The left arm... Pad and paper on the left side of his phone, means he could hold it in his right hand and take messages with his left... All his expensive, favourite suits on the left side of his wardrobe, because he'd open the left-hand door..."  
John seemed to sense Dimmock's irritation.   
"Want me to go on?" Sherlock smirked. Show off   
"Er, no. I think you've covered it." John interjected.

"I might as well actually. There's  
only one left on the list." And, Whoosh! He's off again.  
"The butter knife on the kitchen surface has butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left. Unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of the head. Conclusion: someone in and murdered him. Only explanation of all of the facts."   
"But the gun..." Dimmock seemed taken aback. What a shame, I was starting to like you.   
"He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened."  
"What?"  
"Oh he doesn't know..." you sigh. "Today at the bank. A sort of warning."  
"He fired when his attacker came in." Sherlock says smugly.  
"And the bullet...?"  
"Went out the window." You finish before Sherlock can. You smirk at him. It was childish really, but it annoyed him which made you overjoyed.£  
Dimmock observed - the other officers are gossiping about Sherlock and you; smirking.  
"Oh, come on! What are the chances of that?"  
"Wait for the pathologist's report. The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun, I guarantee." You state.  
"But if his door was locked from the inside... how did the killer get in?"  
"Good. You're finally asking the right questions." Sherlock had seemed to have recovered from having his thunder stolen, because with those words he was off, leaving you and the others behind. You sigh irritably, he was throwing a tantrum because you had shown him up. It was quite amusing really. You apologised to Dimmock.  
"You know, you're much more tolerable than him." Dimmock smiled at you, placing a card in your hand. "You're really smart but don't need to show off all the time. Plus you're stunning. Give me a call." Johns face was brazen, it looked like he was about to explode. What is with all these men flirting with my sister?! He thought to himself angrily.   
“Right yes ok, if we need anything we will be sure to call. Come on (y/n).” He grabbed your elbow and practically dragged you away. You looked over your shoulder to see Dimmock watching you walk away and when he caught your eye he mouthed CALL ME and then John slammed the door.


	7. The Argument

Sherlock had arranged a dinner with Sebastian.   
Well he knew Sebastian he plans and where he'd be and that he'd be with clients and Seb had no clue his lunch was about to be gatecrashed by a sociopath, and army doctor and the doctors sister. Sherlock brought you and John along too. Neither you or John were exactly pleased, seeing as you had enough unwanted flirting in one day to last you a lifetime.

As you entered the restaurant Seb was entertaining clients it was the end of a long lunch. They roar heartily at his jokes. The restaurant was a stylish, classical building (probably an old converted bank in the city).  
The three of you strode to the table, you and John looking slightly uncomfortable.  
"It was a threat. That's what the graffiti meant."  
The table was silenced by this odd intrusion. Everyone seemed to look almost as uncomfortable as you.   
"I'm kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?" Seb laughs awkwardly.  
Sherlock sat down at the table and helped himself to someone's glass of water. You cringed.   
"I don't think this can wait, Seb. Sorry. One of your traders - someone in your office was killed."   
"What!?" Seb blinked, completely shocked.  
"Van Coon. The police are at his flat." You added, trying your best to sound sympathetic.  
"Killed?" He looked saddened by this news.  
"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion. Still want me to make an appointment? OK. Would maybe nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?" Sherlock said after gulping down the water, the woman who it belonged to blinked at him helplessly. 

The three of you and Seb step outside.   
"Harrow. Oxford. Very bright guy. Worked in Asia for a while so..." Seb said, reminiscing about Eddie.   
"You gave him the Hong Kong accounts." You say.  
"Lost five mil in a single morning. Made it all back a week later. Had nerves of steel, Eddie did."  
"Who'd want to kill him?" You ask him.  
"We all makes enemies." Seb grimaced.  
"You don't all end up with a bullet through your temple, though." John added.  
"Not usually.  
Sebastian's phone buzzed - a text message. He seemed rather relieved by the contents.  
"My Chairman. The police have been on to him. Apparently they're telling him it was suicide.  
"They've got it wrong. He was murdered, Sebastian." Sherlock said forcefully.  
"I'm afraid they don't see it that way. And neither does my boss." You sigh. IDIOTS!  
"Seb..." Sherlock starts.  
"I hired you to do a job - don't get side-tracked." With that he exited.  
"I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards." John said sarcastically. 

You wanted to strangle Sebastian. Two of the brightest minds in England (and John) were telling him it was murder and he chose to believe the police? The exact same police that hired one of you to solve cases when they couldn't. 

Back at 221B, Sherlock had printed off his photos of the graffiti - the blindfold and the tag. He stuck them to the mirror above the fireplace.  
He sprawled in the armchair and stared at them in a trance - hoping their meaning will suddenly leap out at him. You observed him. The door slams. John was back from an interview - pink and cheerful. You smile at him.   
"How'd it go?" You ask but almost immediately get drowned out by Sherlock.   
"I said could you pass me a pen?"  
"What? When?" Johns face dropped.   
"About an hour ago."  
"Didn't notice I'd gone out, then?" He sighed, but he wouldn't let his good mood be shattered. He tossed Sherlock a pen.  
"I went to see about a job at that surgery." John said to Sherlock.   
"How was it?" He asked. You sighed, you would've known earlier if Sherlock hadn't have redirected John's attention for a goddamn pen.  
"Great. She's great."  
"Who?" You cock an eyebrow. She?  
"The job." He says, not realising his slip of the tongue.   
"'She'?" You remind him of what he just said.  
"It." He says, clearly lying. He likes the woman who interviewed him. You smirk.   
"Here. Have a look."  
Sherlock pointed to the open laptop - the webpage is a news story - TIMESONLINE.  
"'The intruder who can walk through walls'." John reads.  
"Happened last night. Journalist shot dead in his apartment. Door locked. Windows bolted from the inside. Exactly the same as Van Coon."  
"God. You think...?"   
"He's killed another one." Sherlock started. You sigh, now this is getting interesting.  
"To the police station." You say with a grin, like a cartoon night, gathering his troops. Sherlock smiled slightly, but corrected himself. John grinned at you.

You arrived at the police office and whilst Sherlock was outside talking to John you headed in first.   
Dimmock was sat at his tiny desk, and when he looked up to see you he beamed then his facial expression soured as Sherlock and John caught up to you. Sherlock greeted Dimmock.  
"Can I use your computer?" He asked, not waiting for an answer before he brought up the TIMESONLINE headline.  
"Brian Lukis. Journalist. Freelance. Murdered in his flat. The door locked from the inside."  
"You've got admit it's similar. Both men killed by someone who can walk through solid walls!" John added.  
Dimmock's face turned red with anger as you suspect all the other officers were looking, smirking, gossiping - typical.  
"Inspector? Do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another city suicide?"  
There was no response.  
"You checked with ballistics, I suppose?"  
The inspector gave a curt nod.   
"And? The shot that killed him wasn't from his own gun."  
"No."  
"No." Sherlock repeated, savouring the word. "So. This investigation might move a bit quicker if you took my word as gospel." You sigh irritably.   
"You're really arrogant you know." You say to Sherlock. For some reason he was just annoying you more and more recently. John looked shocked, Sherlock looked confused and Dimmock looked pleased. Pretty much everyone heard you, as you heard little titters and whispers. You glared at the officers doing so.   
"He makes everyone feel like that." John murmured.  
"I've just handed you a murder enquiry. We might have a serial killer. Five minutes in that flat." Sherlock asked.  
"Fine. Five minutes and that's it." 

Arriving at the journalists apartment seemed odd for some reason. It wasn't the first crime scene you'd been to, and it certainly wasn't the worst, but something seemed off. Maybe it was the odd energy between Dimmock and Sherlock. Or maybe between you and Dimmock. Or maybe even between you and Sherlock. You mentally slapped yourself. There is nothing between you and Sherlock! You remind yourself. He's a narcissistic arsehole and you can't afford to be thinking about him right now.

Brian Lukis' flat in Earl's Court was dusty, dirty and purely chaotic with police tape spread across the door. There were mountains of books - some travel books - time spent in south-east Asia. Tucked beside them was an A to Z of London. In the corner of the room - an open suitcase - empty. Unzipped - recently used.  
You cast your eyes over the dead man's desk... Pages and pages of handwritten notes. Books on South-East Asian politics. Lukis was clearly researching an article. Sherlock looks out of the window.  
"Fourth floor. That's why they think they're safe. Put the chain on the door, bolt it shut. They think they're impregnable."  
He tried the windows - all bolted shut; then he looked up at the skylight.  
"They never consider for a moment -there's another way in here."  
"I don't understand." Dimmock says.  
Sherlock saw a broom. He grabbed a table, balanced a chair on it and climbs up on the structure, broom in hand.  
"What are you doing?" Dimmock hissed.  
"We're dealing with a killer who can climb..." Sherlock says, his face showing he was contemplating something important.  
"What?!" Dimmock almost yelped. His brain was struggling to comprehend.  
"He can cling to walls like an insect. That's how he gets in." Balancing on the chair atop the table - he lifted the broom up high and nudged the skylight. It opened.  
"He climbed up the side of this building, ran across the roof and dropped in through the skylight."  
"You're not serious?"  
"The killer scaled a sixth floor balcony in Docklands to kill Van Coon."  
"Hold on..." Dimmock blinked.  
"Of course he got into the bank the same way..."  
"Across the window ledge and on to the terrace."  
Sherlock jumped down from the table and chair elegantly.  
"We have to find out what connects these two men."  
John stares at the detritus on the floor. He sees a small scrunched up ball of black paper - trodden into the carpet. It has been meticulously folded up.   
"Sherlock." He says, pointing to the floor. "It's the same as the other one."  
"Bag it." Dimmock tells one of the officers.  
You find yourself thumbing through the books on the desk. The top one is marked with the words 'WEST KENSINGTON LIBRARY', a stamped date and a little crest. You smile at Sherlock as you hold it up.   
"I think we should take a trip to the library." Sherlock looks up and takes the book from your hand and flipped it over, observing it. He pockets it and then with a swish of his coat, he was gone out the door again.  
"Thank for letting us in." John said to Dimmock. He smiles and nodded.   
"No problem." He turned to you with a look that said "don't forget to call me."  
You and John raced after Sherlock. 

Inside the library, a Librarian is pushing books through the electronic scanning device. Each of them marked with the little crest. The three of you zig zag through row after row of books. Sherlock still had the book he took from Lukis' desk - South-East Asian politics.  
"Lukis was working here. The date stamped in this book is the same day he died."  
The books were on sliding racks. One rack was labelled 'POLITICAL SCIENCE - SOUTH EAST ASIA'. The serial number on the book matches the numbers on this rack. You tugged it and it slides out - you examine the spines. You freeze. Scrawled across the book spines are two massive graffiti symbols written in bright yellow aerosol. Same as at the bank - a horizontal line and a scrawled tag. Just what you were looking for. 

Sherlock had photographed the new graffiti (from the library) and stuck it to the mirror in the living room. He stares hard at four yellow symbols: two from the bank and two from the library. Same pattern.  
"So. The killer goes to the bank - leaves the threatening cipher for Van Coon. Van Coon panics, goes back to his flat and locks himself inside. Just hours later... he dies." You say, running it over in your mind. LThe killer finds Lukis at the  
library, he writes the cipher on the books where the guy will see it. Lukis goes home..."  
"... and that night he dies too." Sherlock adds.  
Beat, you stare at the display - four yellow images.  
"Why did they die, Sherlock?" John asks  
"Only the cipher can tell us." Sherlock responds.

"You know that's really annoying." You snap, causing the two men to stare at you. "I'm a part of this team too, yet both of you seem to completely forget this. "Why did they die, Sherlock."" You imitate John childishly. "And then when we go anywhere, Sherlock seems to forget I'm there! "This is my friend John Watson, and there is no one else with us AT ALL."" You shout. "Have I not proved to you that I'm clever enough to help?! Or do you think I'm just stupid? No one could ever be as smart as the great SHERLOCK HOLMES, and he's threatened by the fact that maybe someone is." You were so hot with anger that you could almost imagine steam coming out of your ears. "I've been solving cold cases for SEVEN years, for gods sake! I got things even the police couldn’t, and I never got one case wrong. I’m not a child.” You direct at John. “And I’m certainly not stupid!” You exclaim at Sherlock.  
“What is your problem with me?” You ask Sherlock, seething with anger. He just stares at you blankly like he can’t comprehend that you were standing up to him. “Well!?” You press. “You’ve never liked me, you were literally pushing me out of the apartment the first time we met for gods sake!” John stood there, awkwardly not knowing what to do or say, just absorbing your foul mood and rant. “I’ve done NOTHING to deserve the way you’ve been treating me. I thought you’d finally set yourself straight and was listening to me, but your stupid EGO has to be the centre of attention. If this is how you’re going to treat me, I’m going home!” You say, storming into the bedroom you had been using and throwing your stuff into a case.   
“(Y/N)! This is your home!” You heard John shout as he rushed to the bedroom door.  
“No! My home is in Scotland! It’s clear I’m not welcome here any longer.” You zip up your case, muttering curses under your breath as the zip traps your skin, drawing a little blood. You ignored it and picked up your case. “You can come visit whenever, but make sure you don’t bring HIM with you.” You snap as you practically shove your brother out of the way. You glare at Sherlock as you stomp through the living room. He’s still stood there, shocked and unmoving. You slam the door and stomp down the stairs.  
“Now what’s going on dear?” Mrs Hudson noticed the hot tears rolling freely and quickly down your face. “Oh love what happened?”  
“I can’t stand him anymore!” You said, your voice hoarse from the growling and shouting. “I’m going home!” You say and slam the door to 221B. You hail a cab, and just as you climb in you see the door fly open and John comes running to your cab, whilst Mrs Hudson watches from the door.  
“Drive please.” You say to the cabbie just before John reached you. He stood at the curb watching you leave helplessly.

You reached king’s cross station not too long after leaving. You were still a state. You climbed out and paid the cabbie. You had noticed you’d left a few things at the apartment. I’ll have to get John to send them to me. You thought. No way was you going back to that place. You booked a direct train to Glasgow central, which cost you £50. You cringed at the price, but it was a necessity. The journey would take roughly five hours. You sighed as you sat in a Starbucks waiting for your train which arrived in fifteen minutes. You were sipping on a (favourite drink). John will probably come to the train station to try and stop you, but the cab ride would take him longer than it’d take for your train to arrive, so you’d be gone by the time he arrived. You closed your eyes for a moment, and as you did your emotions swept over you again, tears running down your face.   
“Excuse me, Miss? Are you ok?” A man asked, his voice concerned but calming. You blinked and wiped your eyes furiously.   
“Y-yeah I’m fine...” he took a seat at your table.  
“Are you sure? You can talk to me.”  
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.” You laughed bitterly.  
“Well let’s not be strangers. I’m Jim!” He held out his hand for you to shake.  
“Hi Jim, I’m (y/n).” You shook his hand.  
“So (y/n), what’s up? Why are you crying?”  
“I had an argument with my brother and his flatmate which I was staying with, and I decided I should go home.”   
“You live in Scotland? Long way...” He asked. You blinked how did he...? You then realised your ticket was on display next to your cup.   
“Yeah, I hadn’t seen John, my brother, in years and thought I should come see him, but his flatmate is insufferable. I guess you could say he is a detective, this roomate, and I was helping with an investigation, but he was ignoring everything I said and it was so... irritating.” You say. Why was this man so easy to talk to?   
“You were helping with a case? Are you a detective?” He smiles.  
“Not exactly. I solve cold cases that the police can’t solve.”  
“Wow! You must be some sort of genius! He must be stupid to be ignoring you.” You smile.  
“I wouldn’t say I’m a genius, but he isn’t stupid either. Well he’s intellectually smart, but when it comes to people he’s clueless.” You smile. Your phone alarm blared. “Ah I gotta get to my platform.”  
You stood up, collecting your things.   
“Ok, it was lovely to see you, (y/n).” You smiled.   
“Bye Jim.” It didn’t strike you as weird his word choice, but later, it did.

It must’ve been two or so hours into the journey when you were sat on the train reading a book, but the character in it reminded you too much of Sherlock so you put it down, and plugged in your headphones, listening to music. You had 12 missed calls from John. Just as you began to drift to sleep, a voice boomed over the announcement system.  
“Everyone stay where you are!” It commanded. You jumped out of your skin, ripping your headphones out in shock. “This is what they call, a hold up. I’m looking for a certain someone. A (y/n) Watson.” You froze, skin crawling and blood freezing. “Now (y/n), don’t try and call anyone, or there will be extreme consequences. This train is rigged with explosives. Anything you do that I don’t like, will cause one carriage to explode.” Your blood curdled.   
“Now, you just need to hand yourself in and I have a few tasks for you.” You couldn’t move. You were frozen to the spot, your throat dry and your eyes wide. “No? Ok then. Let’s put it this way, who ever brings me (y/n) can get off the train at the next station.” Your hands were shaking. You wanted to cry. Think. Who could this be and what is their motive, go from there.   
“She has (h/l) (h/c) hair and (e/c) eyes. She’s a looker ladies and gents!” Everyone’s eyes fell on you, including a pair of familiar eyes.   
Lestrade. Oh thank god. You weren’t all alone. He shuffled to you subtly across the row.   
“Whats going on?” He asked. He didn’t seem as frightened as you, but then again a pyscho wasn’t after him.   
“I don’t know...” you say.   
“Why are you here? Aren’t you living with Sherlock and John? Why are you on a train to Scotland?”  
“We had an argument. I was meant to be going home.” You frown. “It was stupid, now I wish I hadn’t stormed out.” A tear slipped out of your eye. You hoped that your last conversation with John wouldn’t be you arguing with him.  
You heard hushed whispers and felt eyes on you. Lestrade flashed his badge to them discreetly and they seemed to settle.   
“Do you know who wants you?” You shake your head. He wrapped his arm around you. This man was twice your age, and his affection for you seemed, fatherly. You started to cry softly into his shoulder. The voice over crackled and then burst into light again.  
“If she isn’t handed over to me in the next five minutes, a carriage will be destroyed for every two minutes I don’t have her.”  
“I need to hand myself over.” You state. “I don’t have a choice.” You go to stand up, but Lestrade pulled on your sleeve.   
“Don’t.”   
“I’m sorry.” You stand up. “I’m here!” You shout   
“What do you want.” Lestrade looked horrified.   
“Good girl.” The voice cooed. “Come to the conductor carriage. Seeing as no one turned her in and I’m feeling generous, I’ll let a random passenger go. Ticket 231. You can get off at the next stop in 15 minutes. One of my men will escort you. Now (y/n), the man behind you is going to make sure you have no weapons.” A large man dressed in black, who was clearly one of his men, frisked you, his hands lingering uncomfortably at certain areas. This man was built like a gorilla. He decided you were clean. He pulled your hands behind your back and held them in one of his huge hands. He then pushed you to the front of the train. Each carriage had groups of terrified people inside. There was a girl who looked about 16 in one carriage. You observed her, a runaway. You felt a pang of pain for her. Bad day to run away. Then on the other side of the carriage, was a family of four. Two adults, a five year old and a baby. You wanted to cry. All these people were in danger because of you.   
“Move.” The gorilla grunted.   
The baby was wailing loudly.   
“Someone shut that goddamn baby up.” The voice snapped. There were microphones in each carriage. Of course. This wasn’t a small criminal. He was some sort of mastermind. He was dangerous.  
The mother of the baby gently shushed the baby, holding it close to her chest whilst silently sobbing. The gorilla swiped a car to get into the conductors carriage, he shoved you inside and the door locked behind you. 

Inside was a body. You felt sick. The conductor you assumed. “Welcome, (y/n).” A voice cooed.   
“Who are you.”  
“Oh honey, I’m your worst nightmare.” The voice chuckled.” The voice sounded familiar. You racked your brain.  
“What’s up.” You could hear the voice smiling. “It was nice seeing you, (y/n).” The voice mocked.  
Your eyes widened. It was the same voice and same words as the man in Starbucks earlier.   
Seeing you? That’s not something you say to someone you’ve just met, it’s something you say to someone you’ve not seen in a while.   
He’s been watching me. The realisation hit you like a tonne of bricks. You retched, almost throwing up.   
“Oh dear, you understand now don’t you. My name is Moriarty and we’re going to play a game. This game, has an audience. Every move is being recorded and streamed. Say hello to the whole of England, (y/n).” 

Sherlocks POV

I couldn’t comprehend the argument that took place a few hours ago. I was sat on the couch with my laptop, trying to occupy myself when I got an email.   
“Check the BBC news- M xx”  
I flicked on the TV   
Was that- (y/n)- Oh- Oh no.  
“JOHN!!!” I shouted.


	8. The Trainwreck

You were shaking, fear getting the better of you. You need to calm down. Getting worked up will help no one. You took a breath. "What do you want?" You say, composing yourself.   
"You see that driver? He's not actually dead, but he is bleeding out slowly. Save him." That was all the voice said that was all.  
"How!?" You shout. Nothing. You looked around. There were a few items laying around the carriage. A pack of cigarettes and a lighter in a bag belonging to the conductor and a long solid metal rod beside the bag. There was a first aid kit attached to the wall, you opened it, inside was some bandages, and an emergency fire starting kit? You inspect the wound. Deep, missing any organs though, but if left like it is this man has MINUTES left. Your mind flashed to what you needed to do. "Cauterise the wound..." you told yourself. 

You set up the fire kit safely and lit it. You held the metal in the flames, heating it. You remove the mans shirt, he's breathing, but barely. At least he's unconscious for this. You cleaned the area with sterile wipes then take a breath. You grab to cool end of the rod you steady your hand, then place the searing metal on the wound in one to two second intervals. You gagged, the smell of burning flesh filling your nose. You hand slipped and you burnt your own skin. You screeched in pain, but you had to keep going, your eyes blurred with tears. Once the wound stopped bleeding, you looked around for some ice or something cold. This was going to leave bad scarring, but at least he would still live. There was a large bottle of water next to him, you poured a little on the wound, then looked around. There was a mini fridge in the corner. You bolt for it. Inside is a can of coke that looks like it's been in there for weeks. You grab it. It's freezing. Perfect. You wrap the can in the fabric of the mans shirt so it doesn't make direct contact with the wound, and placed it on top. You wait for his pulse to steady.  
"There. I saved him. Now what."  
"Patience sweetheart." Moriarty cooed. "I'll give you five minutes to calm down. We need you at full brain power, so relax." A lullaby started to play. God I want to punch this arsehole in the face. You sat by the door, watching the conductors breathing return to normal. He should wake up soon. A sense of relief washed over you. If any good comes from this at least you saved a mans life you think solemnly. Albeit that he wouldn't have needed saving if you had just stayed at home.   
Ignoring the fact that you had quit and had been clean for a year, you reach for the cigarettes. You take one and the lighter and with trembling hands place the cigarette between your lips. Blatantly ignoring the no smoking sign, you light the cigarette and then sigh as the smoke filled your lungs. You closed your eyes as the nicotine rushed to your head. You began to feel better. It was an almost euphoric feeling. You felt soothed in the warm familiar feeling.   
"Naughty naughty (y/n), didn't you see the no smoking signs? Haven't you also quit?" You scowl.  
"Yes but I hope you'll forgive me, because I'm in a bit of a stressful situation." You say flatly.  
"I guess I'll let it slide."  
"Yeah." You snap.  
"I won't let that attitude slide though." Shit.  
BANG. You began to shake.   
"Don't worry my dear, no ones dead. That was a warning shot. I blew up the snack carriage." You breathed a sigh of relief. "But let's hope I don't have to blow anything else up, right sweet cheeks?" You nod and take a long drag of the cigarette. "Put that out, your next challenge is about to arrive." You did as the voice told you. Complacence was your only option. 

The door slid open and a tray was placed in the floor. Almost as quickly as it opened, your only escape route slammed closed. Your eyes widened and your hands began to shake. On the tray was a glass of water and two pill bottles, each containing a single pill. You recognised it. How couldn't you? It was the case that changed your life- the case that caused you to kill a man to save a man. You flicked your eyes to the train conductor. He was still breathing.   
"Now (Y/N) I don't think even Sherlock got this. Which is the poison? Whichever you choose as the safe pill, you will take. Sherlock never got to take his medicine, so now you have to take it for him." You sigh, picking up the bottles and inspecting them closely. They were identical in every way. This can't be all it was. It couldn't be a game of chance- the killer was too clever to leave it to even a 0.1% he would die. You smile knowingly- then unscrew one bottle lid and swallow the pill dry.   
"Did you take the safe pill, (y/n)?" The voice sounded amused. You then picked the other bottle up, and unscrewed the top, placing the other pill in your mouth and swallowing it again.  
"Oh?" The voice said, intrigue.  
"Thallium. That's the poison- but it's not the pills- it's the water. The water wasn't clear. There was some undissolved minuscule crystals at the bottom of the glass and there was some on the top of the glass. That's the poison. The water- not the pills. And the police wouldn't pick up on it because they wouldn't be looking for it." You finish.  
"Clever girl~" Moriarty purred. "Sherlock sure is stupid to ignore you."  
"Sherlock? Is that what this is about?"  
"You were complaining that he was ignoring you, that's why you were on this train to begin with. I'm just giving you a reason to show of your genius, comparable to only his own. I'm helping you prove your intelligence to him."  
"I don't need to prove my intelligence to anyone! I know my intelligence and that's all that matters."   
"Y'know, this is why I like you. You're a strong independent woman who don't need no man." Moriarty said in a stupid voice that everyone used to say that quote. You roll your eyes. "Anyone your next task is harder. What is Sherlock hiding? Tell me what he's hiding from everyone, (y/n)." 

You cast your memory back to getting onto the train. In your memory you zoom in on each carriage. No explosives or anything out of place. There was no way this was planned more than an hour before departure as there was no way they could've known you would be getting on this train. You remember as hard as possible, to try and find that gorilla henchman getting on the train. Then you see him and two others, going directly onto the snack cabin, carrying a big black box.  
That was the explosive. You could tell by the way they were carrying it. It was delicate and they looked anxious like it could explode at any point. You hadn't clocked previously but that's because you weren't looking for it. Now you were looking it was obvious. You smiled as you opened your eyes. It was time to call his bluff. 

"I refuse." You say bluntly.  
"I'm sorry, what?" The voice said, confused.  
"I'm not playing your games."  
"(Y/N), sweetheart, darling, honey pie, need I remind you that people's lives are on the line."  
"No, you don't. But I'm not playing."  
"Then I'll have no choice other than to kill a carriage of innocent people." You folded your arms.  
"I'm waiting." You say with a smirk. Silence.   
"You see, I don't think you actually do have explosives in every carriage. See, I saw your men bring on a bomb into the snack carriage and no where else." You state. "You thought one explosion would be enough to make me complacent, Male me fear for the next one. And you don't have a next one. So this train will stop at the next station, where the police will be waiting, and then you and your men will be arrested."  
"Oh (y/n)~" Moriarty said, followed by some high tinkly laughter that makes your blood run cold. You blink in confusion. "You really think that I'm on this train. Oh honey you couldn't be more wrong. And as for the men, they're about as willing as you. They're not my men. You know it's funny when people owe you favours, they expect you to call it in for something like a ride to the shops or some money. Sometimes you have to threaten them, to get them to do what you really want. Like that gorilla-looking bloke." He chuckled. "All I had to do was threaten his four year old daughter and all of a sudden he was willing to smuggle a bomb on a train and help me hijack it." Your face fell.   
"You're a monster."  
"No, I'm a king." You could practically hear his smirk. "And a king who's still in control of this train." You blink- how?   
"I've been controlling it remotely. And because you refuse to do anything anymore- I'm leaving you stranded, with a high speed train." You jolted as the train sped up.   
"I'll do it! I'll do what you want." You grovelled.   
"Too late, sweet cheeks, have fun. Moriarty, out." The system cracked and then cut out.   
"Fuck!" You yell. You have to stop this train. You try to yank open the door but it won't open. There's got the be something to open the door. You spin around. Crowbar. You grab it and force open the door, holding it open with your quivering arms. "I need two strong people!" You yell. Two men stand up and run at you.   
"One of you take to door and keep it open the other one, come with me." One takes the door off of you and keeps it held open, and the other one follows after you. You look around.   
"How are we going to stop this train?" The man asked you.   
"No clue, what's your name?"  
"Paul."  
"Well Paul, I'm (y/n). Have you ever drove a train?" You ask.  
"No, I'm a doctor."   
"Awesome, cool, good job. My brothers a doctor." You ramble, while looking over the complex dashboard full of lights and buttons. You look over and see the mic for announcements.  
"Hi everyone, strange situation this is.   
First of all can Greg Lestrade come to the front of the train, I could really use your help." You laugh bitterly. "And everyone else, I will stop this train, please don't worry. I don't know how exactly but I promise you. You will be ok." Your voice sounded like it was about to break. You were about to break. The pressure on you was pushing down and you were beginning to crack. You couldn't give in yet though. You had a train full of people to save. 

Lestrade arrived at the conductors cab. He could see you were about to cry. You needed him. You needed to be supported. He understood. "What do you need me to do, (y/n)?"   
"Please tell me you know about trains."  
"Absolutely not." He replied.   
"Great." You say. "I don't know much, but I know we can't stop in the middle of nowhere. We need to stop at the next station we get near..." you check the digital map. "Perfect, looks like we'll be arriving in a small Scottish town in about five minutes. So that give us four to figure out what to do and one to execute it safely." You see an emergency stop button, and mentally calculate the speed you were going at, it wouldn't be enough. But if you hit the emergency brakes and the regular breaks, it should slow you down enough and if you had everyone plug in some sort of electrical device at once maybe you could even short out the electrics so Moriarty would loose control. You grab the microphone again. "Ok so I'm going to need everyone to get as many electrical devices into the plus sockets and when I say, I'll need you to turn them on at once, but I need every seated so you don't get hurt." You turn your attention to the man holding the door. "It'll be fine if we short the electric, go get safe." You see a tiny building in the distance. The station. You look at Lestrade.  
"You ready? On the count of three." You say to him and the microphone. The building was getting bigger.  
"Three. Two. One. NOW!" Lestrade slammed on the button while you and Paul struggled to pull the heavy breaks. The lights flickered off and a red light on the dashboard labelled "electrical fault" flashed. Amazing. The train began to slow and then stopped with a jolt, sending you, Lestrade and Paul flying. You hit your forehead on something sharp. You sat up and put a hand to your head. It was bleeding a little, but you'd be fine. You looked to Paul and Lestrade. "Are you ok?" They nod in confirmation. You stand up, looking out the window. You had stopped the train so that the first three carriages were aligned with the platform. Not perfect, but everyone could get out. You took the microphone one last time.  
"We have safely stopped ladies and gents." A roar of cheering came from behind the doors. You couldn't help but let a few tears slip out. "Thank you all, you are all amazing. Please exit from the first three carriages. If anyone needs medical help there are police and medics awaiting. This is first and last time conductor (y/n) Watson." You crack a joke. You watch as people begin to scurry off the train. You did it. You fall to your knees and sob in relief. Lestrade wrapped an arm around you and let you cry.  
"You were so brave, (y/n)." He assured. His words made you sob harder.

A team of medics rushed in and got the conductor on a stretcher, while a single medic approached you and Lestrade. "I'm fine." He assured them.   
"I need to check you over." A medic said to you. "Can you stand up?" Lestrade removed his arm from around your shoulders and you stood for a moment before the ground came rushing up to meet you again. Both Lestrade and the medic rushed to hold you up. They took one arm around their neck as they steadied you. You could only see out of one eye by this point as the blood on your head had dripped down to your eye and crusted over. Once they got you off the train, there was an eruption of cheers and clapping. You were confused.  
"They're clapping for you." Lestrade said with a smile. They brought you out of the station and into the back of an ambulance. They cleaned up your head and took a look at your hand.   
"You'll have definite scarring and you have a concussion, but after some rest there shouldn't be any lasting problems." The medic said, wrapping you in an orange shock blanket. You wrap it tighter around yourself, as if you could block out the world. You closed your eyes and focused on your breathing.   
"Out of my way! (Y/n)!" You heard Johns voice at a distance. "(Y/n)!" He sounded so far away.  
"(Y/n!)" you felt a pair of hand grip your shoulders and you snap back to reality. It was John, who was red faced with worry. "Oh I'm so sorry, (y/n)." He wrapped his arms around you, and you threw yours around him and began to cry again.   
"I'm so sorry John."  
"It's not your fault. It's not your fault." He repeated like a mantra. You stayed like that for a while.   
"We've booked a hotel nearby, so we can all stay there tonight. Then we can take you to your house where you can collect the rest of your stuff. (Y/N), I want you to move in with us permanently. You're right you're a part of the team and it's more dangerous for you to be alone now." Sherlocks voice cut in. You looked up at him. He looked like he had been worried to from the creases at the edges of his mouth and on his forehead. You blink at him, processing what he said. John let go of you reluctantly to give you space to process the offer. You nodded. John smiled, and it looked like Sherlock did too. 

John had to help you into the back of a cab. You were still shivering, so Sherlock gave you his coat. You nuzzled into it smelling that familiar warm smell. It seemed like seconds had passed when the cab stopped. The three of you stepped out into the cold Scottish night air. You were in a more populated area- an average sized town. Sherlock handed you your room key after he'd checked the three of you in. 

Once you got in the room you immediately had a shower. You tried to forget about today, but the blood washing out of your hair and the red burn on your hand reminded you. Who was Moriarty and what did he mean what is Sherlock hiding? You climbed out of the shower and wrapped a towel around yourself. On the bed were a new pair of pyjamas with a note on top  
They're the right size, don't worry.~SH   
That bastard deduced your size. You smiled as you slipped them on. They were comfortable and fit perfectly. You reached in to your pants pocket and retrieved the pack of cigarettes and the lighter. John and Sherlock had gone to bed. It was well past midnight. You grabbed Sherlocks coat and put it on after making sure you had your keys. You stepped outside and lit a cigarette.

"I thought you'd quit." A voice came from behind you. You jumped slightly, and turned to see Sherlock.  
"I did. But today was stressful." Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and took a cigarette from the pack and placed it between his lips. You pass him the lighter and he lit it.   
"I thought you'd quit." You repeat to him.  
"I did but today was stressful." He retorts. You both chuckle. The cold night air tossed his curls. He looked beautiful against the dark night. His skin shone in the night like a star. You look down to your cigarette.  
"I'm sorry, (y/n). I don't know why I didn't listen to you. You are extremely clever."  
"And you're extremely stupid." You laugh.  
"Yeah- I guess am." He chuckled.   
"You're right. I was intimidated. But not because you're smart. Because... you... you mess with my head when you're around. I can't think straight, but when you left, it got worse. I need you around... (y/n) no ones ever made me so confused. And I think I like it." He leant in. You leant towards him and your lips brushed against eachother. He tasted like the cool night air and the cigarettes you both shared. He tasted like bliss. You waited a little while and then pulled away. He studied your face and you studied his. You felt your face turn scarlet.   
“Can I have my coat back?” He smiled at you. You took it off before you both headed inside.


	9. Family

You stood at Sherlocks door.  
"Well are you coming in?" He asked, with a smirk. You nodded and stepped in, closing the door behind you. All you wanted to do was feel his lips on yours again to prove to yourself it was real. He sat on the couch and patted the seat next to him, you sat down.  
"I couldn't sleep." You say, leaning into his chest.   
"That's understandable." He wrapped his arms around you protectively. "I was worried sick you know."   
You smile. "Really? Worried for me?"   
"As I said, I've never felt this way before, it's strange. I've only ever really felt concern over John." You chuckle.  
"That's a lie, Sherlock. You're human, more so than you'd like to admit." He smiled, and lowered his face to the top of your head, kissing it gently.   
"I don't usually like people being this close to me, (y/n). Why did you have to change everything."   
"Sometimes change is good." You looked up at him, and his sparkling blue eyes. They were so blue they reminded you of the sparkling ocean. You noticed the ring of green around his pupils, that seemed to dilate when he looked at you. You flick your eyes to his lips. His Cupid's bow was perfectly pointed, and his bottom lip was plump and still damp with saliva. You blushed.  
"You want me to do it again?" The corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a smug smirk. You looked back into his eyes, and he knew he didn't need to wait for a response.  
His lips crashed onto yours once more, and his force made you lean back on the couch, letting him get on top of you. His long locks dangled when he pulled away to breath for a second. He looked completely calm in the situation, unlike you with your brazen red face. He smirked at you, then again locked lips with yours. You ran your fingers through his hair as you leant up to continue your ventures. Then the door opened.   
"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice called. Sherlock sat bolt upright. "D'ya know wher (y/n) is? I knocked on her door but she didn't-" he trailed off as he saw the two of you on his sofa, wet-lipped and wife-eyed. One of you completely red faced.   
"Oh- well..." Lestrade turned scarlet. "I'll leave you to it..." he started to turn and leave.  
"Lestrade!" You shout after him. "Please don't tell John..." he looked back at you and nodded.   
"Uh yeah- sure." Sherlock blinked at you once he'd left.  
"Why not tell John?" He asked, looking almost wounded.  
"Have you seen the way he treats any man who even looks at me? He'd kill you." You both chuckled.  
"I think I have to worry more about you killing me, (y/n). Or at least killing for me seeing as you've done that before." You laugh slightly.   
"I should get back to my room, before John walks in on us next." You chuckle.  
"Yeah, but let me give you something before you go." You look at him.  
"What would that be?"  
He leant in to your face and kissed you passionately once more. You didn't want to part, but when you did, his face was smug and yours smiled back at him.  
"That." 

You lay in your own bed, in your own room, on your own. You frown, you wanted to stay with Sherlock but when morning came, that'd be a mess, so you had to leave. You couldn't help but replay the numerous times Sherlock showed his human side to you. You felt special. Even John thought he was 100% bastard. The searing heat in your face didn't leave, along with the embarrassment of Lestrade walking in.   
Eventually, you fell asleep.

You woke up to a knocking on your door. You groan and roll over to check your phone. Squinting at the bright light, you read 11:30AM.  
Yikes  
You get up and rub your eyes, plodding sleepily to the door. John stood outside with a basket of breakfast pastries and a tray of coffee. "I brought you breakfast." You smile at your brother and open the door wider to let him in. He set the food on your table. Three cups.  
"Is Sherlock joining us?"   
"Yeah, he's just getting dressed." He smiled. Well this will be awkward. You reply the events of last night again.  
"(Y/n)?" John calls, waving his hand in front of your face. You blink rapidly and stare back at him.  
"Sorry what?"  
"I asked which pastry you wanted. Are you ok?"  
"Yeah, just a bit shaken up still." You lied to cover up your embarrassment. "I'll have a croissant..." you say as he hands you a mug, followed by a plate. Sherlock came and sat down at the table with the two of you, next to John and across from you.  
"Also, I ran into Lestrade last night, I didn't know he was here with us." You say.  
"Oh yeah well, he isn't exactly with us, he's just staying here for the night, I ran into him in the lobby last night and he wanted to check up on you, so I gave him our room numbers." You nodded.  
"Ah ok." You looked at Sherlock and he looked at you, then again his pupils dilated. You smiled at him, he smiled back.   
"So we have to check out by one o'clock." John says after a moment of silence, emphasising the clock at the end. "Then we can drive up to your old apartment and get your stuff."  
"Yes but how are we getting home? I'm not getting on another train."  
"Well we kind of- sort of- came here by helicopter." Your jaw dropped slightly.  
"How on earth did you get a helicopter?"   
"I have friends." Sherlock said plainly. You smirked at him.   
"Since when." You giggled. John smirked.  
"She has a point."  
"Ok not friends then, favours."   
"That's more like it." 

The three of you ate, drank and chatted for a while.   
"I'm going to have to ask you gentlemen to leave, while I get dressed." John and Sherlock left, still talking. You took a moment and sat on the bed, calming your thoughts. You grabbed a black turtleneck bodysuit and some comfortable pants. You brushed your hair, and styled it in your favourite style. You brushed your teeth after finishing the rest of the coffee and then you put away your night clothes into your suitcase you had hastily packed just a day prior. You stepped outside to see Sherlock and John waiting for you.   
"So where's this helicopter?" You said with a smile.

You sat in your attic, combing through boxes of old documents and photos. You pulled out an old album of family photos. John knocked on the door, standing on the step below it. "Need any help?" He asked. You shook your head, and traced your fingers over the face of you baby photo.   
"I was cute back then." You chuckled.   
"You still are." John approached slowly, then he lowered himself to sit cross-legged beside you. You flicked through to a page with your father, mother, John, Harry and you. Harriet was three years older than you. You had always been the baby of the family, protected by everyone.   
"Have you heard from Harry recently?" He asked  
"No, but I know she's still drinking."  
"I could've guessed." He said sadly.  
"She'll stop. She always does."  
"But then it's a matter of time before she starts again." You rested your head on your brothers shoulder.   
"You look like dad." You compared the two men's faces. He laughed and took the book from you, and lined it up with your face.   
"And you look more and more like mum everyday." He said, teary-eyed.

Your mother died in a car accident a year after your fathers funeral. She was a surgeon, and she was working herself to exhaustion. One day driving home, she passed out, the car went out of control. After her funeral, you didn't speak for a year. "Selective mute" they called you. You barely moved out of your bed. Your mother was the only person who understood you. John tried, but he never could and you never got on with Harriet because she blamed you for your father leaving. Harriet has started drinking at a young age, and she would come home angry and drunk. John has to kick her out. He looked after you by himself.

Remembering this made you cry. "John, thank you. For everything you've done for me. I don't tell you enough but I love you John. I really do." You sniffed, then felt his arm wrap around you.  
"I love you too."   
You spent some time in the attic reminiscing about your mother and when you were a "normal" family.   
"Remember when you chewed up and spat out Lydia?" He chuckled  
"You mean the psycho?" You laughed too.  
"Are you talking about me?" Sherlock had appeared at the door.  
"I thought you were a sociopath." You teased.   
"Psychopath, sociopath, narcissist. Arsehole. Just a few things that I'm called." He chuckled. John smiled at you.   
"Have you got everything you need?" He asked.  
You nodded, and placed the book back in the box. The boys began to head down the stairs. You grabbed a small necklace box and the photo of your family and put them in your pocket before leaving and locking the attic door. 

The helicopter ride back to London was... an experience to say the least. Sherlock decided he knew enough from watching John and he took control. You were mildly terrified. There were a pew points where you thought you were going to die, but altogether it wasn't too bad. When your feet touched solid ground you almost wanted to kiss it.   
"It's good to be on solid ground." You laughed, nudging John who looked green.  
"I think I'm going to be sick."  
Both you and Sherlock chuckled.

You walked through the door of 221B and a sense of home hit you. John and Sherlock helped you bringing up cases to your room.   
"Thanks, I can unpack everything." You smiled and dismissed them. "John? Can I have some tea please?" You batted your eyelids at him.   
He kissed your head. "Yeah sure."   
He left and Sherlock lingered in the doorway, watching you for a moment, then he left and closed the door behind him. You fished out the picture and box from your pocket. You placed the photo in a frame next to your bed, running your fingers across the gold detailing with a reminiscent smile. You turned your attention to the small necklace box you placed on your bed. You opened it to see your mother's silver heart locket. You placed the box down, and studied the locket. It shone under the lights of the room. You clasped it around your neck, then studied yourself in your vanity mirror. John was right, you did look like your mother. There knock at the door and then it creeked open. John stood at the door, looking at you.   
"It suits you." His eyes said, lingering on the locket. "Did you look inside?" Your fingers lingered on the heart as you shook your head. John set down the tea on your dresser and walked behind you, unclamping the necklace and popping open the small heart.   
Inside was the picture that was now at your bedside. It was almost too small to make out faces. You smiled at the photo. You placed the necklace back on your throat, then grabbed Johns hand and led him into the living room where Mrs Hudson and Sherlock were talking. You sat Sherlock on his seat and he looked at you with a confused look, then you sat Mrs Hudson on the left arm of his seat, and John on the right, then you set a photo timer on your phone and hurried to perch yourself on Sherlocks lap. He gently placed his hands on your hips, not visible to the others.   
"Everyone smile." You command.   
Click the camera sounded. You leapt up and looked at the photo and beamed. It was perfect.   
"What was that for?" John asked.  
"Now I have a picture of my old family, and my new one." You smiled sweetly. You sent it to the printer and when it came out you placed it on the other side of the locket and then you clutched it in your hand. 

You unpacked the rest of your stuff, and changed the bedsheets to the ones you brought from your old apartment. The room seemed more you now. You felt at home. Your books lined the shelves, some fiction, some not. Everything was in place. 

You were in the kitchen, making food for everyone. It was your favourite meal. You dished it out and called everyone to the table. You had never really eaten a home cooked meal together, you either ate out or ate at different times. You poured everyone a glass of wine. Mrs Hudson, John and Sherlock looked surprised.   
"Smells good, (y/n)." John smiled as he sat down. Sherlock nodded in agreement, and Mrs Hudson smiled widely.  
"This is so lovely of you, dear." She said. You raised your wine glass.   
"To family." Mrs Hudson and John bith repeated after you, but Sherlock remained silent, looking at you. When he realised John and Mrs Hudson were glaring daggers at him he raised his glass and cleared his throat.  
"To... family." He said awkwardly.

Lying in bed that night you couldn't sleep. You held your locket, and looked to your bedside at the larger photo. You climbed out of bed and went into the kitchen to make some camomile tea to help you sleep. You looked at your phone. It was 1:30 in the morning. You padded into the living room and looked out the window. Sherlock was asleep on the couch. You looked over to him and smiled. His chest was rising and falling slowly and rhythmically. You grabbed a spare blanket from your bedroom and placed it over him, watching him sleep as you sipped your tea. A wave of tiredness swept over you as you let out a yawn. You washed your mug out and headed back to bed. You spent some time reading until you submitted to sleep.


	10. Ciphers

You woke up at eight am, and now, at 10 AM, you Sherlock and John were strolling briskly through Trafalgar Square. The triple threat were back on the case of "the blind banker" as John had dubbed it.   
Once again Sherlock had found his wind and was on a roll.  
"The world runs on codes and  
ciphers... that million pound security system at the bank... the pin machine you took exception to... cryptography inhabits our every waking moment..."   
"Yes, ok, but..."  
"But it's all computer generated. Electronic codes - electronic ciphering methods. This is different: it's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods can't unravel it."  
"Where we headed?" You asked.  
"I need some advice."  
You and John share a smug smirk.   
"What? Sorry?"  
"You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again." Sherlock scowled at both of you.  
"You need advice." John was practically beaming.  
"On painting. Yes. I need to talk to an expert."  
You head in the direction of the National Gallery. But then Sherlock cut down a side alley.  
"Where... where are you going? Sherlock?" 

You find yourselfs at the back of the National Gallery - in an alleyway. There was a roughly nineteen year-old skateboard punk: hoody, baseball cap and over-sized jeans. He has a kit bag at his feet and an aerosol can in hand. He sprayed a stencil on to the rear wall of the gallery - a policeman with a pig's face. Underneath it is what you assume is his tag. Raz the almost illegible scrawl reads. The boy knew you were there without even turning.  
"Part of my new exhibition." The boy states  
"Interesting." Sherlock states plainly.  
"I call it 'Urbanbloodlustfrenzy.'"   
"Mm. Catchy." You state.  
"I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner. Can we maybe talk whilst I'm working?" Raz asks.   
Sherlock offered him his phone. Raz throws the spray can to John so he can look. John looks kind of insulted. Raz flicked through the photographs. The images from the bank and the library.  
"Know the author?" Sherlock asks.   
"I know the paint. Looks like Michigan, hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc." Raz says, uninterested.  
"And what about the symbols? Do you recognise them?" You press  
"It's not a tag. I'm not even sure it's a proper language."   
"Two men have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this - it's the key to finding who killed them."  
"This is all you got? Not much to go on." Raz scoffs  
"You think you could help out?" Sherlock aggressively asserted.  
"I can ask around."   
"Someone must recognise it."  
Two community support officers appear around the corner.  
"Oi!" One shouts.  
You, Raz and Sherlock see them approaching and run away quickly. You and Sherlock don't struggle to keep up with the younger man, but then when you all get to a different alley Raz stopped and seemed more out of breath than the two of you. You smirked at Sherlock, then look around for John.   
"Where's John?" You groan when you realise that he hadn't run with you.   
"So anything else you have for us?" Sherlock presses.  
"Nope, not really." Raz drawled then he looked at you.  
"So who's this? Is she your bird?" You had always hated that term. You opened your mouth to say no, but Sherlock beat you to it.  
"Yes, she is." He placed his arm around your waist and you flushed red as he pulled you closer. Your mouth still hung open.   
"Close your mouth dear, you'll catch flies." He said, affectionately patting your head. You reluctantly close your mouth.  
"So a woman has finally tamed the great Sherlock." Raz teased. You look away awkwardly.   
"She's definitely a looker, you chose well." You were furious at being blatantly objectified.  
"Don't speak about her like that, she's a human, not an object." Sherlock almost growled. That was kind of hot... you batted away the thought as soon as it settled in your mind.  
"Alright, alright." Raz held his hands up in surrender. "Anyway, those coppers should be fine by now. I'm going to get back to my art." He says leaving you and Sherlock in the alley alone.   
"I'm your "bird"?" You ask him.  
"Well no, I just knew that if I said no he would flirt with you and make you uncomfortable."  
"And would you be jealous?" You smirked  
"I never get jealous." Sherlock said, stone-faced.  
"Sure... so why are you still holding me so close?" With that he retracted his arm and brushed himself off.   
"Let's go home." He said. You nodded, and followed him out the alley, just wanting to kiss that stupid straight look off of his face.

You were in your room when you heard the door close, you quickly made your way back into the living room. Sherlock stood at the fire place with his head in a book of runes, facing the mirror mounted above it.  
"You've been a while."  
"Yeah, well you know how it is... Custody Sergeants don't like to be hurried, do they? Just formalities. Finger prints; a charge sheet. And I'll have to be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday..."  
"What?" Sherlock seemed uninterested.  
"Me, Sherlock. In court on Tuesday. They're giving me an ASBO! Criminal damage."  
"Good. Fine." Sherlock said, not listening. You blinked in shock.  
"You want to tell your little pal: he's welcome to go and own up, anytime..." John snapped   
"This symbol - I still can't place it. I want you to go to the police station. Ask about the journalist..." Sherlock changed the subject.  
John tried to take off his coat but Sherlock wouldn't let him.   
"All his personal effects will be impounded. Get hold of a diary - or something that will tell us his movements..."He pushes John out of the door.  
"Me and (y/n) will go and see Van Coon's PA... If  
we can retrace their steps - somewhere they're going to coincide." 

Sherlock ran off up the street and you followed after. John is left alone. He sighed and hailed a cab. The cab draws up. He climbs in then glances round... someone is on the pavement opposite, watching him.  
He only got the tiniest glimpse - a fleeting image as the cab raced away. A WOMAN dressed all in black?  
She holds up her phone - is she photographing John? The cab pulls away.

You stand awkwardly in the corner as Sherlock looks around frantically. Eddie's PA, Amanda stood next to him, she had her hair fastened back with a little green hair pin. She leans over and punches passwords into Eddies computer, while pressing her chest together with her arms, shamelessly flirting with Sherlock. Your face turns red with rage. Eddies calendar pops up on the computer. A note in it says 'DALIAN' - a trip lasting three days.  
"Flew back from Dalian, Friday. Looks like he had back to back meetings with the sales team."  
She pressed 'Print' - then hands out a copy of the diary for Sherlock, her hands lingering near his. Sherlock stared at her hand until she retrieved it.   
"What about the day he died? Can you tell us where he was?" You ask   
"Sorry. There's a bit of a gap." She says, completely uninterested with you. Sherlock frowns at her and that seems to spark a memory.  
"Silly me! I've got all his receipts!" She says to Sherlock, smiling and praying for praise. He ignores this.

Eddie's receipts from that week were spread across her desk. Taxis; meals; buses; trains. You and Sherlock stare aimlessly - trying to get a sense of the man's life. Posh restaurants - countless expensive bar bills - new suits.   
"What sort of boss was he, Amanda? Appreciative?" Sherlock asked, earning a wry smile from Amanda.  
"Er... no. I don't think that's the word I would use. The only things that Eddie appreciated had a big price tag."  
There is hand-cream on her desk- expensive looking.  
"Like that hand cream. He bought  
that for you, didn't he?" You say to her. She seemed utterly disconcerted by this.  
Sherlock shuffled the receipts around like a card game - trying to get them in order. Amanda brushed hair from her eyes - pins it back again.  
"Look there. He took a cab from home the day he died. Eighteen pounds fifty."   
"That would get him into the office." Amanda state's.  
"It wasn't rush hour. Check the time. Mid morning. Eighteen would get him as far as..."  
"The West End! I remember him saying." Amanda seemed to have a flashback. Sherlock found a train ticket amongst the receipts and checked the dates.  
"Underground." He checked the small print "Printed at one. In Piccadilly."  
"So he took a tube back to the office?" Amanda asked. Shut up, we're working. You wanted to say, but you bit your tongue.  
"Why would he take a cab into town - and then the tube back?" Amanda's brow furrowed   
"He was delivering something heavy. Didn't want to lug a package up the escalators."  
"'Delivering'?" Amanda asked  
"To somewhere near Piccadilly station. Left his package and walked back to the tube." You guessed.  
Sherlock spotted something. He picks up a receipt from the pile - a sandwich shop.  
"Hang on. Look at this one. He stopped on his way. He got peckish." Sherlock took the receipt and swooped our of the office, with you trailing closely behind. You head for the sandwich shop where Van Coon had visited.

"So. Bought your lunch. En route to  
the station. Where were you headed from? Where did the cab drop you off?" Sherlock asks no one.  
He did a full 180 and walked away from Piccadilly.  
He was so busy looking at the shops on this street he collided with someone on the pavement. It's John, coming in the opposite direction.  
"Van Coon brought a package here the day he died." Sherlock said excitedly.   
"Whatever was hidden inside that suitcase. I've managed to piece together his movements using scraps of information..."   
"Sherlock." John interrupted.  
"... credit card bills and receipts.  
He flew back from China and came here."  
"Sherlock..." John interrupted again, getting annoyed.  
"Somewhere in this street. Somewhere  
close. I don't know where."  
"Sherlock!" Sherlock finally listened. John pointed you a shop. "That shop over there."  
"How can you tell?" Sherlock's brow furrowed.  
John held up the journalist's diary  
"Lukis' diary. He was here. He wrote down the address."  
"Oh." Sherlock frowned. John was rather pleased with himself at having found the answer so easily.  
You all crossed the street to the shop.  
A golden cat in the window waves at the three of you.   
Also in the window was classical ceramic figures on display. Paper lanterns, Chinese fans and sashes were strung around the door. You enter one after the other.

Inside the shop was tiny, dingy, dirty. There was a strange fluorescent glow to everything. A layer of dust covered everything. No one had bought anything here for years... No till - just an old metal cash box, with a few coins in the bottom but no notes. An old lady in dark glasses sat on a stool behind the counter. The radio played a Chinese news station. You didn't speak Chinese but understood a few words. On the shelves stood row after row of statuettes - Buddhas and geishas and classical warriors - cheap stoneware with green and ochre glaze. You smelt incense burning. A dish of oranges (also covered in dust) sat by an altar with miniature figures - Gods and Guardians. Everywhere there were lucky Chinese cats with waving paws - moving in hypnotic unison. All the items are labelled with prices in Chinese. Sherlock lifted a small stone figurine - exposing a small square in the thick layer of dust. The Shopkeeper decided that John was an eager customer.  
"You want Lucky Cat...?"  
"Er, no thanks. No."  
She lifts a lucky cat from the shelf and turned to John.  
"Ten pound. Ten pound. I think your wife she will like." She gestured to you.  
"She's- she's not- that's my sister." He says, trying to explain. Then something caught your eye, Sherlock seemed to notice too.  
"Sherlock, look... On the label there..." you say, while John is still bumbling to the woman.  
"I see it." He said as he stared at the prices scrawled on the little tickets.  
"The symbol. Look. It's exactly the same as the cipher..." It was a handwritten price tag - the symbol on it is identical to the 'tag' found at the library and the bank.

You exit the shop and Chinatown is to your right you enter the grandiose red gate. Row after row of restaurants - the Golden Pagoda, Plum Valley, the Crispy Duck fill the miniature town. Market stalls selling vegetables - a man trims bok choy with a machete. Aromatic scents assault your nose. A girl working in a Chinese herbalist throws a bucket of water out on to the pavement and starts to sweep.  
The three of you perused the shop windows - the same symbols appear again and again: price tags at the deli; the blackboard outside the grocers...  
Numbers numbers numbers... Everywhere Chinese numbers. All similar to the tag. You slap your head - how did you miss this!?  
"It's an ancient number system - Hang Zhou. These days only street traders use it." You say.   
The Chinese grocer also displays the prices in 'regular' numerals, so you all can translate on the spot... You examine his price tags - find a match.  
"They were numbers! Written on the wall at the bank and at the library! Numbers in an ancient Chinese dialect!" Sherlock exclaimed.  
"It's a '15'. Look. Just here! What we thought was the artist's tag - it's a number '15'." John laughs  
"And the blindfold. The horizontal line. It's a number as well. It's the Chinese number '1'!"  
"We've found it." John celebrates.   
The Chinese grocer appeared from his shop door - angry that you're swapping all the labels from his food and grabs them back.  
John glanced up - something familiar seemed to catch his eye... A woman: black sunglasses; black headscarf; black coat. Taking a photograph with her mobile, perhaps? He does a double-take, but she has gone.

Across the road from The Lucky Cat (the shop you had went in upon arrival) sat a sad, dingy cafe which exclusively housed uncomfortable plastic chairs. The steam from a coffee machine seemed to fill the room.  
Sherlock scribbled '1' and '15' on the back of a serviette.  
"Two men travel back from China. They both come straight to the Lucky Cat Emporium. What did they see?" John asked aimlessly.   
"It's not what they saw. It's what they brought with them in those suitcases." Sherlock states plainly.   
John seemed to follow his line of reasoning perfectly.  
"You don't mean duty free." John nodded.  
The waiter brung your food - a sausage sandwich for John and a cold pastry and glass of water for you. You wait for him to go.  
"Think about what Sebastian told us. About Van Coon; about how he kept afloat in the market."   
"Lost five million..." John recalled   
"Made it back a week later... This is  
how he made such easy money..." you state, keeping up with Sherlock perfectly.   
"He was a smuggler." John followed.  
"A guy like him - he would have been  
perfect. A businessman, taking regular trips to Asia." You smile. Clever. Very clever.  
"And Lukis too - a journalist, writing about China. They smuggled something out. The Lucky Cat was the drop off." Sherlock added.   
"Why did they die? It doesn't make  
sense... If they both turned up at the shop and delivered the goods... why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event? After they'd finished the job?" John asks, stumped. A moment of silence. You all think. 

"What if one of them was light-fingered?" You say.   
"How d'you mean?" John asked.  
"One of them stole something - something from the hoard." You say, getting excited by your own brilliance.   
"The killer doesn't know which one of them took it! So he threatens them both." John said, also getting excited.   
But Sherlock is no longer listening. He was staring out of the window across the street.  
"Remind me: when was the last time it rained?" He asked. You and John look at each other and the excitement dissipated.

Once again you're standing outside The Lucky Cat. Sherlock examines the door to the flat above. The bell says 'SOO LIN YAO'. A telephone directory on was on the doorstep, still in its little plastic bag although the bag was torn at the corner. The directory was standing on end, leaning against the door... if someone had opened the door it would have moved. Sherlock ripped the bag open - the pages were swollen with rain water.   
"That's been on the step since..." you recall when it had last rained. "Monday."  
Sherlock rang the doorbell, but there was no response.  
"No-one's been in this flat for at least three days."  
Sherlock darted down the side of the building - a side alley - you and John scuttling like bugs after.  
"They're away on holiday. So what?" John stated.  
You look up, the windows were gaping open.  
"Do you leave your windows open when you go away?" You ask. There is scaffolding at the back of the flats.  
Sherlock jumped up on a dustbin, hauling himself up on the scaffolding. He reached the windows of the first floor flat, one of which was wide open. He jumped inside.  
"Sherlock!" John hissed. You followed suit.

Once you'd hauled yourself inside, you almost knocked over a vase on the ledge but you just managed to catch it.  
"I did that too." Sherlock nodded at the vase in your hand.   
You placed it back and looked around. It was a fastidiously clean little studio flat. The person living here has good taste, but no money to indulge it.  
Everywhere there were feminine touches - dried flowers, embroidered cushions, a Chinese screen.  
But the place was cold - no one had been here for days. There was one cup, one bowl, one pair of chopsticks left on the draining board by the sink- they were living alone. The washing machine lights showed 'End'. Sherlock opened it. The washing is damp and it smelt. In the corner is a clothes horse hung with laundry - all of it bone dry. The flowers in the vase are sagging. You opened the fridge and sniffed the milk - it had gone sour and almost made you gag at the stench. As you're inspecting the kitchen, Sherlock is mumbling to himself. You hear him trail off, then it sounds like he coughs. The coughing gets more violent. "You ok?" You shout to him.  
"Any time you want to include me - that would be great." John calls from the letterbox.   
"H-help." Comes a choked cry from the bedroom. You walk slowly. He's probably fucking with me. You say to yourself, but as you reach the door you see Sherlock being strangled by a man in a black mask.   
"Sherlock!" You shout. The man spots you and puts his hand in Sherlock's pocket- not taking anything, but putting something in. "Get off him!" You shout as you run at the men. The masked man dropped the cord he was strangling Sherlock with and ran, scurrying away through the window. You stayed with Sherlock.   
"Are you ok?" You look at his throat. There would be some bruising but it didn't seem like he'd received some lasting damage. He was breathing heavily.   
He reached into his pocket, and retrieved a small black lotus made of folded paper.

After making sure Sherlock was fine, you went to the door.   
"The milk's out of date. And the washing - it's started to smell. Someone left here in a hurry. Three days ago." You state  
"Someone?" John asks   
You pointed to the name on the bell.  
“Soo Lin Yao. We need to find her.”  
“How exactly?”  
Sherlocks hoarse voice cut in as he appeared behind you. “Start with this.”  
He had picked a note up off the doormat.  
‘SOO LIN. PLEASE RING ME, TELL ME YOU’RE OK. ANDY.’ It read. Sherlock turned the paper over - an old envelope. It says NATIONAL ANTIQUITIES MUSEUM.  
“Guess we’re going to the museum.” You sigh, stepping out of the door, followed by Sherlock, who closed it behind you.  
“You sound croaky. Are you getting a cold?” John asked  
“It’s nothing.” He scowled.  
“There was someone else in the apartment. He was getting choked.” You say, deadpanned. Sherlock scowled at your and you stick your tongue out at him.  
“You were- Sherlock, you better not be putting my sister in danger.” John said.  
“Yes John I’m fine, thanks for asking.” Sherlock said sarcastically.

When you arrived you went straight to the Chinese antiques room and introduced yourself to a worker there, who’s name was Andy Galbraith. You had already worked a conversation up about Soo Lin.  
“When was the last time you saw her?” Sherlock asked after clearing his throat.  
“Three days ago. Here, at the museum. This morning - they told me she’d resigned. Just like that. Left her work unfinished.” Andy said with a frown. From his tone it was obvious that it was abnormal for this to happen. From the way he acted when you asked about her it was also evident her liked her.  
Sherlock looked around him - beat.  
On display was the Empress’ mannequin; the Jade exhibition; the wall of Benefactors’ names.  
“What was the last thing she did - on her final afternoon?” Sherlock asked. Andy gestured for the three of you to follow him.

ANDY opens the door to a storage room.  
Broken antiquities littered the room. Limbs and torsos. Andy switched on the main light. Statues were wrapped meticulously in dust sheets. Andy points to the Chinese cabinet in the corner.  
“There. She does this demonstration for the tourists - a tea ceremony. She’d have packed her things away and put them there.” Andy states.  
One of the statues was untied - you saw the rope coiled on the floor and the dust cover removed. You stride over to the statue. A Greek marble - no head.  
Written on the body of the statue - in yellow paint... the same Chinese death cipher.  
“Sherlock.” He looks over and sees what you had seen.

By the time you had exited the museum it was dark.   
“We have to get to Soo Lin Yao...” you state  
“If she’s still alive! That cipher - it means he’s planning to kill her next.” John Scoffed   
“That’s why I found him in that flat - he was waiting for her.” Sherlock said.  
A voice behind called Sherlocks name.  
You all turn. Raz is there - dressed in a dirty hoody and trainers.  
“Well, look who it is...” John said bitterly.  
“I’ve found something you’ll like.” Raz said with a smirk.

You stand on the South Bank alongside John, Sherlock and Raz. Twinkling lights reflect in the Thames, if you weren’t here with them, it would’ve been romantic.  
“Tuesday morning. All you’ve got to do is turn up and say the bag was yours.” John said, snapping at Raz.  
“Can we forget about your court date?” Sherlock groaned.  
On the river bank - watching you cross the bridge...  
The woman in black. You arrive on the South Bank, underneath the Hayward gallery. The walls were thick with graffiti - street art from hundreds of different authors. Sherlock and you stare at the myriad colours.  
“If you wanted to hide a tree then the best place to do it is a forest, wouldn’t you say? People would just walk past it, not knowing - not able to decipher the message.”   
“There.” Raz points. Someone has painted a huge tag. Underneath... remnants of the yellow zinc paint - just a few tantalising splashes left exposed.  
“They’ve been here. The exact same paint. John, go up on to the railway line. Look for that same colour. If we’re going to decipher this language we’re going to need more evidence.”  
“Where are you gonna g...?”  
He turned to Raz- but the three of you had gone again.  
“Could have predicted that.” John sighed  
Sherlock practically skipped away with you following behind. Johns once again was left alone.  
Sherlock and you were on the railway line, running south. You both shone your torches about.  
Lying in the gutter is an empty aerosol can, bright yellow drips around the nozzle. You pick it up and sniffed the paint.

Sherlock and you continued south. The moon illuminated the graffiti - grey in the light. You reached an area that is thick with fly-posters - gigs and club events. Sherlock stares hard - one of the posters has caught his eye. He tears at the bottom, a small shred of it comes away. Then you hears a shout. He looks north along the tracks. John was running towards the two of you.   
“Sherlock! (Y/n)! I found it.” He shouted to you, then you and Sherlock shared a glance and ran towards him, he spun on his heel, leading you to where he’d found the cipher.

And he led you straight to- a blank wall. Painted black.  
“I don’t understand. It was here.” He stuttered. Now the wall is blank. Painted over?  
“Twenty minutes ago. I saw it. A whole load of graffiti.” He stuttered.  
You reached out and touched the wall. It was wet. Black paint transferred to your fingertips.  
“Someone didn’t want us to see it.” He said looking to you.   
Sherlock grabbed your brother by the head - planting both his hands on his friend’s skull. You snickered.   
“Hey - Sherlock! What you doing?”  
“Shush, John. I need you to concentrate. Shut your eyes!”  
“What? What for? What you doing?” John said, looking panicked.  
He clamps John’s arms to his sides and spins round with him, trying to induce a trance-like state. They looked so childish it was ridiculous.  
“I need you to maximise your visual memory. Try to picture it. Picture what you saw. Can you remember it?”  
“Sure. Yeah.”  
“You can remember the pattern?”  
“Yes, definitely.”  
“How much can you remember?”  
“Look, don’t worry...”  
“Because the average visual memory is only sixty-two per cent accurate.”  
“Oh, well I remember all of it.”  
“Really?” Sherlocks brow furrowed, doubtfully.  
“At least I will if I can get to my pockets. I took a photograph.”  
Sherlock lets go and John pulls his phone out. Shows a picture to you and Sherlock. The new cipher. You smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s a two update day babeyyyyyy!! Productivity peaked today and I couldn’t stop writing! It’s a pretty long chapter now too!


	11. The Date

Early morning. Dawn peeping through the curtains.  
You and John have had barely any sleep, and you both sit on the couch, struggling to keep awake. Sherlocks energy never seemed to waver somehow. Maybe you were wrong, maybe he isn't human. He stares at the collage on the wall - a print out of the eighteen Chinese symbols now has pride of place.  
He had scribbled the number translation underneath each - '3' and '19', '12' and '43' etc...  
"Always in pairs. Look." Sherlock said.  
"Mm?" John said, barely conscious.   
"Every number comes with a partner..."  
"God, I need to sleep." John rubbed his eyes.   
"Why paint it next to the tracks?"  
"No idea.." he yawned  
"Thousands of people pass by there every day..."   
"Just twenty minutes..." John pleaded.  
"Of course! He wants information. He's contacting all his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen - he wants it back. And it's somewhere here - in code. We can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao." Sherlock said with a clap which startled you out of your half-consciousness.   
"Come on you two! Get up! We're going out!" He hurried you both up off the seat and out of the door. You were both too dazed to protest.

You stood with John, Sherlock and Andy.  
"Two men died after visiting China... The killer left them messages - written in the Hang Zhou numerals."  
"Soo Lin Yao is in danger. That cipher... it was just the same pattern as the others. He means to kill her as well." John said  
"I've tried everywhere. Her friends;  
her colleagues. I don't know where she's gone. She could be a thousand miles away." Andy frowned.  
Sherlock isn't listening. He's staring into the distance.  
"What's the matter, Sherlock? What are you looking at?" You asked, still sleepily.  
"Tell me more about those tea pots, in that case." Sherlock asked  
He is staring at the Zisha pots in their glass case. Andy opens the cabinet.  
"Those pots were her obsession. They need urgent work. If they dry out the clay can start to crumble. Apparently you have to keep making tea in them."  
"Last time we came here - only one of those pots was shining." Even through your sleepy haze, you were sharp. Two of the tea pots were now gleaming - newly seasoned.

At the security desk, the guard hands Andy a complete written log of who's been in and out of the staff entrance.  
"I mean, I know it's antiquated. But everyone who comes in here has to enter their name. She hasn't been back to the museum. Look at the log!"  
Sherlock looks about him - the museum was a warren of doors and cupboards and electrical access tunnels. He looks from one door to another...From one gallery to another... From one wire-mesh panel to another... This whole museum was a maze of entrances and exits...  
"Maybe she never went away." Sherlock stated.

You went back to the apartment with the intent of returning that night, giving you and John time to sleep. You were woke by Sherlock, telling you dress in black. You changed and met him and John at the door, and headed back to the museum. It was shrouded in darkness. It gave of the unsettling vibe that public buildings at night gave off. The "You shouldn't be here" vibe, as you aptly named it. The galleries were dark. Statues shone in the moonlight.  
Silence. And then a scratching noise - an electrical access panel pushed out of its place. Two pale hands grasp the metal grille and lower it to the floor. A woman squeezes out from the tunnel. Her feet pad on the marble floors. She enters the Chinese Antiquities Room. The Empress mannequin stares into the shadows. The woman took out a bunch of keys and goes to the case containing the Zisha. She opened it and lifts down a third pot ready for restoration. The woman sat at her desk in the restoration room. She has a small brass kettle of hot water and some green tea leaves. You saw the detail of her desk from the shadows - catalogues and papers, books about ceramics and antiquities.  
And an A to Z of London. Carefully she takes the Zisha pot and brews the tea - sprinkling the leaves and delicately pouring in water. She sloshes the tea around inside - coating the pot with the glaze. A voice startles her.  
"Fancy a biscuit with it?" Sherlock asked.  
She turns, drops the pot in surprise - it nearly rolls off the desk. He rescues the pot.  
"Centuries old. Don't want to break it." He said holding it up and then placing it back on the desk.  
You and John enter the room too.  
"You saw the cipher? You know that he is coming for me." Soo Lin was clearly agitated.   
"You've been clever. So far you've managed to avoid him." You state  
"I had to finish. To finish this work. But it is only a matter of time. I know he will find me."  
"Who is he? You've met him before?"  
"When I was a girl, living back in China. I recognise his... 'signature'."   
"The cipher?"  
"Only he would do this. Zhi Zhu."  
"What?" John asked  
"It means 'The spider'." You state.  
Soo Lin removed her shoe, then shetakes off her sock, lifts her foot. There, on her heel, is a small circular tattoo - a black lotus flower inscribed in a circle.  
"You know this mark?" She asked  
"It's the mark of a Tong." Sherlock stated.  
John gives quizzical look.  
"An ancient crime syndicate. Based in China." You state, remembering it from a book you had read recently.  
"Every foot soldier bears the mark - every one who hauls for them." Soo Lin said sadly   
"Hauls? You mean... you were a smuggler?" John asked  
"I was fifteen, living back in China, in the Yellow Dragon City. My parents were dead. I had no livelihood. No way to survive day to day, except to work for the bosses." You sympathised.   
"Who are they?" You ask  
"They are called the 'Black Lotus'. They smuggle alcohol - cheap cigarettes. No one thinks of searching the pockets of a school girl. By the time I was sixteen I was taking thousands of pounds worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. I'm not proud. I'm ashamed of how I lived. But I managed to get out. I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England - studied; night school. They gave me a job here. Everything was good. A new life."  
"And then he caught up with you..." you said sadly.  
"Yes. I hoped after five years... maybe they would have forgotten me. But they never really let you  
leave. A small community like ours - they are never very far away. He came to my flat three days ago. He asked me to help him - to track down something that was stolen."  
"You've no idea what it was?" John asked  
"I refused to help." She shook her head.  
"So he sent you the cipher as a punishment." Sherlock added.  
She nodded gravely.  
"He is ruthless. A fanatic. He would strike down anyone. Even family - if they betrayed him."  
"You knew him well? When you were living back in China?"  
"Oh yes. He is my brother." You and John both look at each other in shock. Even though Harry hated you and blamed you for a lot of things, if anyone tried to hurt you, she would've hurt them before they got to you. How could someone do that to their family?

"Our parents died in the  
demonstrations. 1989. I was four years old. Liang a little older.  
Two orphans. We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus or starve on the streets like beggars. My brother has become their puppet - in the power of the one they call Shan - Black Lotus General. I turned him away. He said I had betrayed him. Next day I came to work and the cipher was waiting."  
Sherlock reached into his jacket pocket and produces print outs - the ciphers from the bank, the library and the railway.  
"Can you decipher this?" He asked  
"They're numbers."  
"Yes."  
"Here. The line. Drawn across the man's eyes. This is a Chinese number '1'." She says, pointing to the blindfold on the photo.  
"And this? '15'?"  
"Yes."  
"So. '1' and '15'. What's the code?"  
"All the smugglers know it. It's based upon a book..." The lights go out. Someone had thrown all the electrical switches. You look around in horror - no one visible. Just shadows.  
And then the sound began - A distant drum beat. A Chinese Dagu drum, you recognised.  
"He's here. Zhi Zhu. He has found me." She sounded content with her impending doom. You pulled Soo Lin down on to the floor. Sherlock jumped to his feet and sprints towards the sound. John follows him.  
"Sherlock! John!" You said helplessly. Underneath you Soo Lin seemed to be shivering beneath you.  
A loud bang sounded through the halls. Was that- a gunshot? You immediately worried. What if John and Sherlock was hurt. You had to stay put with Soo Lin. You shook slightly as numerous more gunshots quickly succeeded eachother.   
"That skull is two hundred thousand years old. Have a bit of respect for archeology!" You heard Sherlock shout. A wave of relief washed over you when you heard his voice. Then suddenly the bullets stop. "Thank you."   
You feel a shifting from underneath you, and then you noticed Soo Lin was gone. Your calm state is suddenly turned into panicked frenzy once more.   
"Soo Lin!" You called. In the dark you could make out two shadowy figures on the other side of the room. Then one crumpled like a piece of paper as a shot rang out. You covered your mouth as you inwardly screamed. The other figure just seemed to disappear. The lights flickered back on as you ran to Soo Lin's corpse. She was certainly dead a gun shot wound in her temple like the rest, and a black paper lotus flower in her hand. Sherlock and John ran to your side. John wrapped his arms around you tightly as you began to cry.  
"I was meant to look after her..."   
"You did you best, at least your ok..." he rubbed your back.

The three of you stood in at Dimmock's desk once again. Sherlock was fired up after the encounter at the museum, John was angry and bewildered you were still shaken up.  
"How many murders is it going to take before you start believing this maniac is out there? A young girl was gunned down tonight - three victims in three days. You're supposed to be finding him..." you ranted, emotions getting the better of you.   
Sherlock raised a hand to stop you ranting - your emotional tirade was clearly not helping.  
"Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were working for a gang of international smugglers. A gang called 'The Black Lotus'. Operating right here in London. Under your nose."  
"Can you prove that?" Dimmock drawled.   
The light in Sherlock's eyes said he can.

It didn't take long for you to realise where you were heading. The hospital. It was obvious now you thought about it. Sherlock barrelled straight time the hospital canteen. Molly Hooper was on a break although she still held clipboard and lab coat. She queued at the self-service cafe with a plastic tray. Sherlock joined the queue behind her.  
"What are you thinking? The pork or the pasta?" He asked  
"Oh. It's you." Molly smiled, clearly she had not been expecting him.  
"This place is never going to trouble Egon Ronay. Probably ought to stick with the pasta - don't want to do roast pork. Not if you're slicing up human cadavers."  
"Er... what are you having?"  
"Don't do food when I'm working. Makes you tired, when you digest."   
"Oh, right. You're working here tonight?" She smiled hopefully."  
"Got some bodies we need to examine." He gestured to you and John.   
"Some?"  
"Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis."   
She recognised the names, then checks her clipboard.  
"Er... They're on my list." She read the details. "I did the post-mortems."  
"Could you wheel them out again?" Sherlock batter his eyes at her. A surge of jealousy hit you.  
"Well, the paperwork's already gone in..."   
She dithered, sheought to say 'no' but wants to say 'yes' because it's him. Her crush on him was painfully obvious and made your stomach churn.   
Get a grip. You're not together. You tell yourself.  
Sherlock decided to apply a little pressure.  
"You've changed your hair." He said.  
"What?" She reached up and instinctively touched her hair.  
"The style. You used to part it in the middle."   
"Oh. Yes. Well." She stuttered   
"Suits you better this way."  
She smiled. And he's got her. You couldn't help but smirk at how easily she was won over. A simple observation and she was putty in his hand.

You, Molly, Sherlock, John and Dimmock stood in the cold, brightly lit mortuary.  
"We're just interested in the feet."  
"The feet?" Molly asked quizzically   
"Do you mind if we just take a look at them?"  
Hooper unzips the body bag reluctantly. Lukis had the Black Lotus tattoo on his heel.  
"Now Van Coon." You all turn to the adjacent slab.  
Molly takes off the cloth. Van Coon lay underneath. Same routine - same tattoo on the heel. Sherlock turned to Dimmock with a victorious smile.  
"So?" Dimmock didn't seem impressed  
"So either these two men happened to visit the same Chinese tattoo parlour. Or I'm telling the truth."  
"What do you want?" The detective sighed.  
"I want every book from Lukis' apartment. And Van Coon's."  
"Their books?" Dimmock raised an eyebrow.

You arrived home taking off your coat as you walk through the door. You were visibly shaken by the death of Soo Lin. You flop down into John's chair.  
"It's not just a criminal network - it's a cult. Her brother's been corrupted by one of its leaders."  
"Soo Lin said the name..." you say  
"Yes. 'Shan'. 'General Shan'. In  
Chinese it means 'The mountain'."  
You retreat further into the chair despondently.   
"We're still no closer to finding them..." you say, almost giving up hope.  
"Wrong! We know almost all there is to know. She gave us most of the missing pieces..."  
"He asked me to help him track down  
something that was stolen." Her voice echoed in your head.  
"Why would he go and see his sister? Why would he need her expertise?"   
"She worked at the museum." You say  
"Exactly."  
"An expert in antiquities.... Ah. Of course. I see. Valuable antiquities. Ancient relics of China, purchased on the black market. China's home to a thousand treasures - hidden after Mau's revolution.  
The Black Lotus is selling them." You say.  
Sherlock grabbed John's laptop. This time John did not protest.

You stood up and walked over to Sherlock's side. A logo on the computer screen read 'CRISPIAN'S AUCTIONEERS. 1750-2010'. He jumped through a series of pictures - valuable antiquities up for auction. Sherlock paused on anything oriental - screens; ceramics. He settled on a picture - two Ming Vases. Their shape is unusual. You recognise them as the exact same impression that was in Van Coon's suitcase.   
"Check the dates. Look. Arrived from China a week ago. Anonymous. The vendor doesn't give his name. Two undiscovered treasures from the East." You point to the dates on the listings.  
"One in Lukis' suitcase and one in Van Coon's." Sherlock nodded. Your eyes meet. You know that you have found the answer. You both smirk. Sherlock continued to surf the net - Chinese antiquities sold at auction. He was making a hand-written list of objects... Anything brought into the country by an anonymous vendor and then writing the date next to each one. Focused tight on the words on the screen:   
'Source: Anonymous'  
'Source: Anonymous'  
'Source: Anonymous'  
"Here's another one. A month ago. Chinese ceramic statue. Sold for four hundred thousand."   
Surfing again - more Chinese antiquities...  
"Look. A month before that. Chinese painting. Half a Million." John has joined you in looking at the small screen.  
"All of them from an anonymous source." You state.  
"They're stealing them back in China  
and - one by one - they're feeding them into Britain."  
John flicked through Lukis' pocket diary and the print-out of Van Coon's computer diary. He circled some of the dates in fluorescent pen and writes them on a second list.  
He compares his list to Sherlock's... The dates the Chinese items were sold at auction... compared to the dates that Van Coon or Lukis went to China.  
They tally precisely - same pattern on the page.  
"Every single auction coincides with Eddie or Brian Lukis travelling to China." John says  
"So, if one of those men was greedy, when they were in China - if they stole something ..."  
"That's why he's come." You and John mused in unison. A knock on the door turned all your attentions. Mrs Hudson stood around the door.   
"Are we collecting for charity, Sherlock?" She asked.  
"What?" He asked irritably.  
"A young man's outside with a crate of books." She said. Sherlock's face lift up.

The Baker Street flat filled with boxes and boxes of books. Everywhere they were piled high. A couple of constables are bringing in more from the cold night that lay outside. Some boxes are labelled VAN COON, some are labelled LUKIS. You, Sherlock and John sat amidst a huge stack of them.  
"So. The numbers - they're references." Sherlock said.  
"To books?" John asked.  
"To specific pages. And specific words on those pages." You say, flicking through the book in your hand.  
"Right. So... '15' and '1'... That means..."  
"You turn to page fifteen and it's the first word that you read." You say.  
"OK. So? What's the message?" John asked.  
"Depends on the book. It would never be the same book twice. That's the cunning of a book code." Sherlock states while he stared at the burgeoning piles.  
"It's got to be something they both own."  
"OK, fine. Well this shouldn't take too long, should it?"  
John started to make a painstaking list of all the books and then attempts to cross-reference them.  
Dimmock entered next - he's carrying a stack of papers sealed in an evidence bag. The bag has a white label stuck over the seal - 'POLICE EVIDENCE'.  
"We found these. At the museum. Is this your writing?" He asked, putting them under Sherlock nose. It's the pages of scribbled ciphers that he asked Soo Lin to translate.  
"We hoped maybe she could decipher it." Sherlock said without turning his attention from the book.  
None of you stir to examine it. Sherlock grabbed the bundle of evidence and slung it on his desk - amidst the jumble. Dimmock hovers for a moment - trying to see what you all are doing. He wanted to be part of the gang.  
"Anything else I can do?" There was a pause ensued by silence before he spoke again. "To assist you, I mean."  
"Some silence would be marvellous." Sherlock snapped. Dimmock sulked out- he was, in fact not, one of the gang.

John located identical pairs of books and handed them to Sherlock and you: two copies of every best seller.  
Sherlock takes the first pair - two copies of a trashy thriller - something that everyone owns. He opens one and examines Page 15. First word.  
'is'. No use.  
You flicked through your pair. The first word written there was 'it.' Many attempts to match the fifteenth page and first word always resulted in nothing significant. The word is always something innocuous like 'and' or 'the', or occasionally something saucy like 'bum'.  
You sighed. "The thing about a book code - it has to be a book that all of the gang members own. And one that they all have access to..."  
"Can't run around town with the works of Shakespeare in your pocket."   
An alarm clock rings. You have worked through the night. John got up.  
"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.   
"To work." You groaned. That left you and Sherlock alone in the apartment all day, with a strange tension between you. He chugged a cup of coffee and made a break for the door.

You and Sherlock sat in the living room in silence. Sherlock was still flicking through book after book - neither of you could find the one that unlocks the code.  
"A book that everyone would own..." he muttered.   
He went to his own bookshelves and searched. He took down all the classic books and examined them one by one to see if they unlock the code.  
The Bible  
The OED  
Dan Brown  
Nigella Lawson  
Jamie Oliver.   
No results it seemed. 

Time sped by as you and Sherlock worked tirelessly, you almost didn't realise it was almost night and John had returned home.   
"I need to get some air to the brain. We're going out tonight." Sherlock stated to the two of you.   
"Actually - I've got a date." Sherlock and you raised your eyebrows simultaneously.   
"A date?" You ask.  
"What?" Sherlock asked  
"It's where people who like each other go out and have fun."  
"That's what I was suggesting." He asked. You snorted  
"No it wasn't." He took a deep breath. "At least I hope not..."  
Sherlock finds his wallet. "Where you taking her?"  
"Cinema."  
"Hardly original. What about this?"  
He digs into his wallet and takes out a scrap of paper. It is the tiny shred of a poster that he peeled off the wall from the railway arches.  
"In London for one night only."  
"Thanks, but I don't come to you for dating advice."  
He's better than you think.  
John looks at the paper - no picture. Just a scrap that says 'CIRCUS' and has the box office phone number. He sighed and took it, then left.   
"Get Dressed, (Y/N). We're going on a date." Sherlock stated.   
"Are you asking me out."  
"Evidently so." You smirked. 

You dressed yourself in a tight fitting off the shoulder black dress with a large slit down the thigh to allow for movement, because you suspected that this somehow related to the case. You let your hair down. You flicked on some eyeliner and painted your lips in an alluring red. You wore some low black heels that you could run in. You spritzed on your fancy perfume.  
"I'm ready." You shouted to Sherlock, fixing your earrings and necklace as you walked into the living room. When your eyes met his you could've sworn you saw a slight tinge of pink to his cheeks. He was dressed in a nice pair of trousers and a dark shirt and a dress jacket. You smiled.  
"You look..." he cleared his throat. "Very nice..." you smiled.  
"As do you, Mr Holmes." He offered you his arm and you walked down the stairs together. Mrs Hudson has just come inside.   
"Oh my! Look at the two of you! You look lovely!" She beamed. "Let me take a photo!" She said excitedly like she was a mother witnessing her child's first date.  
"We really don't have-" Sherlock began but you placed a hand on his to shush him.  
"Let her have it." You smile. Sherlock reluctantly put his arm around your waist in an attempt to pose. You smiled for the camera.  
"Lovely!" She beamed. "You two have fun!"

You arrived at the circus. It wasn't quite what you were expecting. You heard Johns voice. Of course, you were crashing your brothers date.  
"What's the name?" The man behind the counter asked.  
"Holmes." John assumes.  
"Actually, I have four in that name."  
Hands him an envelope with the name 'SHERLOCK HOLMES' on it.  
"Oh, no. I think that's an error. He booked two."  
"And then I phoned back and got one for me and (y/n) as well." Sherlock approached them. John groaned. He looked at you, like he'd noticed how dressed up you were.   
"I'm Sherlock." He holds his hand out to John's date.   
"Sarah." She says.  
"I think we have ourselves a double date." You say, awkwardly. John stared at you. What!? He mouthed to you, you just shrugged.

"You couldn't let me have one night off?" John snapped the moment Sarah excused herself to goto the bathroom.  
"The Yellow Dragon Circus! One day they're in London. It fits. The Tong sent an assassin to England..."  
"Dressed up as a tight rope walker? Come on, Sherlock. Behave!"   
"A killer who can climb! Who can shin up a rope! Where else would you find that level of dexterity? Exit visas are scarce in China. They'd need some reason to get out of the country, wouldn't they? I just need to have a little look round the place..."  
"Fine. You go ahead. I'll take Sarah off for a pint." He said. You stood next to Sherlock looking awkward.  
"I need your help."  
"Look, I do have one or two other things on my mind this evening."  
"Like what?" You looked at Sherlock, in disbelief. John's face mirrored your own.  
"You are kidding?" You looked away.  
"What's so important?"  
"Sherlock - I'm right in the middle of a date. You want me to accost some killer whilst I'm trying to..."  
"What?"  
You could tell he was trying to think of how to say his next words delicately, but failed.   
"Whilst I'm trying to get off with Sarah!" He said with a blush. You cringed.   
"Also can you explain why you're on a date with my sister?" He snapped.   
"I'm a big girl John I can choose who I give my company to."  
"Yes but a date!?" Sarah exited the bathroom and John dropped the subject. He forced a smile.   
"Ready?" He offered his arm to her. She took it and they walked off together. Sherlock threaded his arm through yours and led you after them.


	12. The Blind Banker

There were no seats in the derelict music hall. The audience stood in the empty space. In the centre of the stage space is a tall tripod covered with a black cloth. A female performer entered, dressed in the make up and robes of the Chinese opera (rouged face and gold head-dress). A drummer banged out a monotonous beat on the Dagu drum. A sound that was eerily familiar. It was the same drum they heard at the museum... the same drum Van Coon and Lukis both heard... The opera singer pulls off the cloth. Balanced on the tripod was an evil-looking ballista - an ancient Chinese crossbow. At one end was the long metal shaft, ready to fire. At the other end hangs a metal bowl on a chain, dangling from the trigger. A big crash from the drummer. You jumped against Sherlock and he glanced down at you. From her robes the opera singer produces a lethal-looking crossbow bolt. She puts it in the ballista mechanism and cocks the spring. A wooden plank (cut into the shape of a man) is strapped to the apron of the stage. The ballista points straight at its imaginary heart. The woman raised her hands for silence. Hush. Then drum roll. She extracted a white feather from her head-dress. Gently she dropped the feather into the metal bowl. The mechanism is so sensitive that the weight of the feather pulls the trigger down and releases the spring. The deadly dart fires straight into the plank. Gasps. Music.  
The singer retrieves the dart from the plank and replaces it in the ballista. A masked warrior enters, dressed all in black - short and muscular.  
"I think I know what's coming." John said.  
He stands against the plank. The extravagantly dressed woman ties him with thick cords so he is unable to move.  
"Dear God. What are they going to do now?" Sarah asked.  
"Ancient Chinese escapology act. The crossbow is on a delicate spring. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires." Sherlock said.  
"Well, that sounds like ideal entertainment for a Friday night."  
Crash! Sarah jumps again and clutched John for comfort. The ballista spring is pulled back. Then...  
A long golden rope is lowered from the ceiling, from the to the bottom end hung a sandbag. The rope ran up and over a beam. Attached to the end in the roof is a metal weight, shaped like a teardrop.  
"They split the sandbag so the sand pours out. The weight is gradually lowered on to the bowl. Classic Chinese circus act." Sherlock says to you. You already knew this but let him continue just to stroke his ego.   
"I would have been happy with a bit of juggling and a couple of clowns." John frowned.  
Another crash on the drums caused Sarah to hug John tighter.   
"Then again..." he muttered under his breath.   
The masked warrior was in place, strapped to the plank. The singer takes out a knife and cut a gash in the sandbag. The sand starts to pour out. Slowly, slowly it rises to the ceiling, spinning all the while. On the other end of the rope the metal weight is gradually lowered towards the waiting bowl. The drummer begins his crescendo. The warrior in black struggles in his bonds. The cords that bind him do not seem to budge. Sarah was terrified and John was visibly tense. You and Sherlock on the other hand knew that he would get out of it. The sandbag is almost bereft of sand - higher and higher it rises.  
The metal weight drops down, almost touching the bowl. Then, after struggling for an eternity, the warrior seems to be loosening some of his bonds. But maybe it's too late... The sand runs out; the weight lands in the bowl; the warrior pulls away and ducks. Sherlock grabbed your hand and led you away. The ballista is triggered; the dart fires into the plank; the man in black steps aside and it misses him by a whisker. The crowd breaks into spontaneous applause.  
"How about that...?" John says, he then turned to Sherlock, but neither of you are there.  
Sherlock tiptoes around backstage with you following in suit. You find a dressing room area - empty. The light is dim - just a few candles. Chinese costumes litter the tables and chairs. Sticks of greasepaint and abandoned opera masks. In the corner is a mannequin dressed in green. A head-dress rests on the top - the face of a Chinese warlord.  
Sherlock took the head-dress off and examines it - intricate workmanship; glittering designs. Applause sounded in the distance. He replaced the head-dress on the mannequin and leaves.   
"Ladies and gentlemen, from the  
distant moonlit shores of the Yangtze river, we present for your pleasure... the deadly Chinese bird spider." A voice bellowed, loud enough for you to hear. Recorded music plays - ambient. From the ceiling drops a large length of grey silk. Dressed from head to foot in grey - grey leotard and grey mask - a tall, angular man enters. He climbs the rope. You witnessed this from a crack in the curtain.  
"Well, well." Sherlock said, while looking too.   
Footsteps. Someone is coming. You panicked. It was the OPERA SINGER, leaving the stage.  
Sherlock grabbed you and darted back along the narrow wing space and into the deserted dressing room area. He bobs down low behind a hamper with you pushed against him, waiting for the footsteps to die. Suddenly you see something. A small black kit bag lying on the floor. There are tiny dabs of yellow paint on the handle. You unzipped it and reaches inside. And you retrieved... an aerosol can!  
The footsteps have gone. You jump to your feet and spray the can at the mirror. It's yellow paint.  
"Found you." You smirk.  
You both make for the door, you glanced at the mannequin - the green robes and the WARLORD head-dress. Was something different? Had the mannequin changed from when you laid eyes on it three minutes ago? You scanned the figure from head to toe. Did it have hands? And were those hands carrying a sword? You gazed at the face, nose to nose. And then the face opens its mouth and screams. A full-throated war-cry. Someone is wearing the WARLORD costume now and he attacks you, brandishing the sword.  
"Shit!" You ducked the attack.  
You and the Chinese warlord are locked in hand to hand combat. The man is squat and bulky but immensely strong. The warlord lands one blow after another, you narrowly managed to dodge them and to keep your footing. Sherlock tried his 'Watch Out' routine, pointing into the corner.  
"Hey!" He shouted  
The trick fails miserably - the warlord just punches him in the mouth. You take this distraction as time to grab the paint can again. You thought on your feet, and sprayed it into the warriors eyes.  
The soldier swung his razor sword blindly, hoping to hit something. He almost hits Sherlock's head. Sherlock ducked and the sword embedded itself in the plaster wall.  
You seized the moment, kicking your assailant square in the chest with a mighty force.  
Together you go crashing through the door, straight through the blacks and into the auditorium space.  
The crowd are momentarily stunned: a Chinese Warlord wrestling on the floor with a young woman in a tight black dress.  
"John!" Sherlock shouted, following you.   
John dived on the warlord. The audience scatter, screaming, running for the Exit signs. The warrior lands a punch on John- sending him careering into a curtain. He tears it down and it lands with a cloud of dust. The candles are extinguished, leaving everywhere in complete darkness. In the gloom Zhi Zhu scuttles down his silken skein and disappears into the shadows. The Warlord tosses you off of him and advanced on Sherlock and landed another punch. You groan as you stand back up and dust yourself off. Ouch.   
Sarah seized the wooden plank. She brings it crashing down on the head of the warlord. She runs over to rescue John from the dusty chaos. Sherlock ripped a shoe from the warlord. He gazed there at a tattoo on the man's heel. The Black Lotus. But the warlord was not concussed - merely stunned. He kicks out at Sherlock and staggers to his feet; dizzy; and still brandishing a extremely deadly sword.  
From the wings the opera singer appears - something in her hand. She points it at John. He flinches - instinctively thinking it's a gun. But it's not. It's a mobile phone. She photographs him and smiles. John knows he has seen her before - the woman in black who had been stalking him. The warrior continued to advance at you and Sherlock, half-concussed, but flailing with his sword. John knew it was time to retreat. He grabs Sarah by the wrist.  
"Hope you enjoyed your evening." He said to her  
"Just another date." She teased.   
"Damn. And I wanted to make it memorable." He chuckled, then turned to you and Sherlock and the four of you ran away into the dark.

Sherlock and John and you found yourselves reporting to DI Dimmock once more. Sarah was with you- seeing as you had come straight from the theatre.  
"I sent a couple of cars. The old music hall is totally deserted." Dimmock sighed.   
"Look... I saw the mark at the theatre. The tattoo we saw on the bodies. The mark of the Tong." Sherlock said adamantly.   
"They were part of a smuggling operation. One of them stole something - when he was in China. Something valuable." John state's.  
"These circus performers - they were gang members, sent here to get it back." You said  
"Get what back?" Dimmock questioned  
"We don't know that." John said, slightly embarrassed.  
"You don't know?" Dimmock said. He then leant back and sighed heavily. "Mr. Holmes - I've done everything you asked. Lestrade - he seems to think your advice is worth something... I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I'll have something to show for it. Other than a massive bill for overtime."   
Silence. There is nothing Sherlock, or anyone for that matter, can say to mollify him.   
"They'll be back in China by tomorrow." John sighed.  
"They won't leave. Not without finding what they came for. We need to find a hideout - a rendezvous." You say, as you take your shoes off. Sherlock stared at the eighteen symbols on the display.  
"Somewhere in this message - it must tell us." Sherlock sighed.  
You were all staring at the wall display, expect from Sarah who shuffled about awkwardly.  
"Well. I think maybe I should leave you to it."  
"Oh you don't have to go yet... does she, (y/n)? Stay a bit."  
"Yes it'd be easier to study if you left now."   
The men had both said these, overlapping eachother. They stared at eachother like they had been insulted by what the other had said.  
"He's kidding. Stay if you like." John smiled.  
"Is it just me? Or is anyone else starving?" Sarah smiled awkwardly. John walked to the fridge to find something for her, leaving Sarah in the care of you and Sherlock in the lounge.  
Sherlock looked visibly irritated by the interruption, he was trying to study. Reams of paper are piled up everywhere - the scribbled cipher. The room is in chaos.  
"So. This is what you do. You and John." She says to the both of you. You look up to her.  
"You solve puzzles. For a living."  
"Consulting detective." Sherlock replied impatiently.  
"Ah." She said.  
Sarah was finding it hard to get Sherlock to engage.  
She looked over his shoulder at what he was writing.  
"What are these squiggles?" She asked. He ignored her.  
"They're numbers. Written in an ancient Chinese dialect." You reply for him.  
"Of course. Yes. Should have known that." Sarah teased gently. Sarah picked up some of the pages from the heap - the ones that were once sealed in an evidence bag.  
"So - these numbers. It's a cipher."  
"Exactly." Sherlock said plainly.  
"And each pair of numbers is a word."  
Sherlock is interested in Sarah for the very first time he turns and looks at her. You raise a brow- this should be interesting.   
"How did you know?" He asked her.  
"Two words are translated here." She shows him the page she was looking at - the pages that Dimmock brought back from the library in the evidence bag.  
There was a print-out of eighteen symbols grouped in nine pairs. Sure enough - the first two number pairs have words written underneath.  
"How did you do that?" He asked, dumbfounded   
"I didn't, it was already written." She stated.

John appears with the tray of snacks and a few drinks.  
"John, look. Soo Lin - at the museum- she started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it." You say, showing him the sheet.   
"'Nine' 'Mill'." You say  
"'Nine Mill...'?" Sherlock asked  
"Maybe it means 'million'?" John suggested   
"'Nine million quid...' For what? We  
need the end of the sentence."  
Sherlock rushed to the door. You grab some flat shoes and follow.  
"Where you going?"  
"To the Museum. The Restoration Office - we must have been staring at it."  
"What?"  
"The book, John - the book. The key  
to cracking the cipher! Soo Lin used it to do this. Whilst you and I were running round the galleries she started to translate the code. That book is in her office!" And the two of you bolt out of the door, leaving John and Sarah alone.

Sherlock ran out on to the street to hail a cab but with no luck. You both collided with two German tourists, their heads buried in an A to Z of London.  
The books falls to the gutter and they rail at you both in German.  
"Sorry, sorry." Sherlock says as he shoved the book back in their hands. Then stops on the street corner, his mind racing. 

You looks across the street. Two Japanese tourists are opposite - one of them has an A to Z tucked in his back pocket. You remember back in Van Coon's apartment. The book by the phone. And on the shelf in Eddie's. Sitting at VAN COON'S desk on the trading floor. The A to Z of London.  
"Everyone carries it. No one would think twice if they saw it. It's... invisible." You say, with a smile that screamed I've cracked it  
The restoration room at the museum. The London A to Z was right beside Soo Lin while you were talking to her. Sherlock chases down the German couple. The man had tucked the A to Z in his coat pocket. Sherlock yanks it out.  
"Just a second."  
They rail at him a second time.  
"Page fifteen. Entry one. Page fifteen entry one." He muttered under his breath as he quickly thumbed through the guide.

'Deadman's Lane'. You read over his shoulder. You both stared at it. 'Dead man'.  
"'Dead man'. You were threatening to  
kill them. That's the first cipher!" He exclaimed, earning a confused look from the Germans. He tugged the papers from his pocket - the eighteen symbols from the railway. He got out a pen then falls to the pavement to write. You stand next to him awkwardly. He started thumbing through the index, translating each pair of numbers - writing them down. Each number pair refers to a street...  
'Nine Elms Lane' 'Mill Hill' 'Fore Street' 'Jade close' 'Pin street'  
'Dragon Road' 'Den Close' 'Black Acre Close' 'Tramway Avenue'  
You look to Sherlock, he has a grim frown covering his face.  
"'Nine Mill Fore Jade Pin. Dragon Den Black Tramway'" you say.

You and Sherlock arrive home. Slamming the door and running up the stairs, he shouts up to John.  
"John, we've got it! They key to the cipher. The book. It's the London A to Z, that's what they're using..."  
You giddily burst into the flat. The lights are on. John and Sarah are nowhere to be seen. What is there instead made you pale with shock.  
Sprayed on the windows are two Chinese numerals - in yellow aerosol. A death cipher. Sherlock and you were rummaging through his bookshelves and Sherlock found a big OS map of London and spreads it on the table.  
"Tramway... tramway...." he mutters urgently. You point.   
"There!" You say. Your brothers life is on the line, you couldn't afford to be slow. He circled it, and you committed the map to memory in a few seconds. You ran out the door with Sherlock trailing behind .

"I'm not Holmes!" You heard your brother's voice echo, and without thought you ran straight to him.   
"I don't believe you!"  
"You should, you know." Sherlock said, striding into the room. You composed yourself and followed him in. John was ok.  
"Sherlock Holmes is a great deal more pompous. With a 'U'. And a great deal more... what was the word, John?" Sherlock said.  
"Late." He scowled.  
Sherlock swings a length of metal piping and knocks the warlord out cold while you rushed forward to save Sarah. The opera singer from the circus raises her gun and points it at you and you stop in your dead tracks. The sandbag was still rising to the ceiling... There is hardly any time. You look at the gun.  
"That's a semi-automatic. You fire it - the bullet will travel at a thousand metres per second." You state  
"Well?" The opera singer challenged.  
"Well, these walls have a radius of  
curvature of nearly four metres. If you miss then the bullet will ricochet." You say, causing the singer to falter. "Who knows where? You could hit anyone. The bullet could bounce around the tunnel and hit you."  
"I have no intention of missing." She states.  
"Still. I'd take those glasses off. Can't shoot straight in the dark..."   
And you suddenly lash out and kick over the burning brazier. The flames are immediately extinguished.  
You dive into the shadows - behind the oil drum. The singer fires and misses. The bullet ricochets around the tunnel, narrowly missing John. Everywhere was very dark now - just the meagre glow from the candles. Zhi Zhu ran at Sherlock in the shadows. He reached into his pocket - pulling out a long skein of silk - lassoes it over Sherlocks neck with expert precision. He dragged Sherlock up towards him - spinning more and more silk around him and tugging it tighter - the spider spinning a web around his victim - choking him.  
Sarah was writhing and squealing in her bonds. The weight has almost fallen; the ballista about to fire.  
John deliberately toppled his chair over and, using scrabbling motions, drags himself towards the loaded ballista. The opera singer holds up the gun but she couldn't squeeze the trigger for fear of hitting her henchman. Sherlock was being choked to death in the folds of silk. They are locked together in a silk cocoon... you think. Save Sherlock or save Sarah. You see John scrambling to Sarah. Sherlock needed you more. You ran at Zhi Zhu, tackling him and releasing Sherlock who then inhaled, coughing loudly. You tussled with the spider, wresting him to the floor. You quickly get up and move to the other side of the room. John finally crawled to the ballista, still strapped to the chair, and lamely attempts to kick it over. The sandbag is in the roof; the weight is now inches close to the spring mechanism. You helped John topple the tripod. The ballista fires. It misses SARAH and whistles straight past her. The bolt fires straight into Zhi Zhu's heart just as he stood up. His body falls to the ground, crumpling like paper. Sherlock and you run over to Sarah, releasing her from her bonds and her gag. John smiles up at her, still prostrate on the floor.  
"I don't suppose there's a chance of a second date some time?" She laughs. And then cries.

The street leading down to the old tram tunnel are filled with flashing blue lights. An ambulance has come to take the corpses. Uniformed officers cordon off the area. Sarah is lead away with a blanket over her shoulders - shocked but not hurt. The three of you were side by side as they emerge from the tunnel. DI Dimmock was waiting.  
"We'll just slip off. No need to mention us in the report." Sherlock smiled.  
"Mr. Holmes..."  
"I have high hopes for you, Inspector. A glittering career."  
"I go where you point me." Dimmock said. Sherlock nodded.  
"Exactly." The three of you walk away as more uniformed officers arrived.

The next morning you were back at Van Coon's office. Nine Mill Fore Jade Pin. Dragon Den Black Tramway.   
"'Nine Mill...'" John said.  
"'Million'." Sherlock said  
"Yes. 'Million'. 'Nine million for  
Jade Pin. Dragon Den Black Tramway'."  
"An instruction - to all of their operatives in London. A message - what they were trying to reclaim." You say  
"A jade pin?"  
"Worth nine million pounds. Bring it to the tramway - their London hideout."  
"But... a hairpin. Worth nine million pounds!" John exclaimed.  
"Apparently." Sherlock said.  
"Why so much?"  
"Depends who owned it."  
"Two operatives - based in London.  
They travelled over to Dalian to smuggle those vases. And then one of them helped himself to something. A little hairpin." You say.  
"Worth nine million pounds, apparently."  
"Eddie Van Coon was the thief. He stole the treasure when he was over in China." Sherlock added.  
"How d'you know it was Van Coon not Lukis? Even the killer didn't know that."  
You reached the doors of the bank.  
"Because of the soap." You and Sherlock said in unison. You smirked at him and he smirked back.   
You spin around in the revolving doors, then head inside.

You head straight to Amanda's desk.

"He gave you a present."  
"Oh, hello." She smiled at Sherlock.  
"When he came back from China. A little gift." You said.  
"How did you know that?" She asked.   
"You weren't just his PA, were you?"   
"Someone's been gossiping." Amanda tutted.   
"No."   
"Then I don't understand..."   
"Hand soap. In his flat. With moisturiser. Three hundred millilitres. Almost finished the bottle." Sherlock said  
"Sorry?" She asked  
"I don't think Eddie Van Coon was  
the sort of chap who would buy himself scented hand soap. Not unless he had a lady coming over. Same brand as that hand cream on your desk there." Sherlock stated.  
"I... Look... it wasn't serious between us. It was over in a flash. It couldn't last. He was my boss after all..."  
"What happened? Why did you end it?"  
The blonde woman shrugged.   
"I thought... he was taking me for  
granted. He didn't appreciate me." She sighed, then finally admitted. "Stood me up once too often. We'd plan to go away for a weekend and then suddenly he'd leave. Fly off to China at a moment's notice."  
"But he brought you back a present from abroad. To say 'Sorry'." SHERLOCK holds out his hand. "Can I see it?"  
She reached into her hair and took out the Jade hair pin he gave her; places it in Sherlocks open hand.  
You look at it. It is old - intricately carved. And tiny.  
"Said he bought it in a street market."  
"Ah, no. I don't think that's true. I think he pinched it." You say.  
"That's Eddie." She half-laughed  
"I don't think he even knew it's value. Just thought that it would suit you."  
"Oh... How much is it worth?" Sherlock just smiled.  
John stood nearby with Seb, and you approached them both. Seb handed John the second cheque for your services.  
"He really just- climbed up the window?" Seb asked him.  
"Nail a plank across the window and all your problems are over."  
Through the glass wall you can see Amanda with Sherlock.  
She jumped up in the air and shrieks - total shock and panic. He has just told her how much it's worth. You smiled.

You had returned to the museum that day too. In the Chinese Antiquities Room stood a mannequin of the Empress in gold and black. The director and the three of you stare at her. The mannequin's costume had been fashioned to resemble her exactly as she was at her wedding - a thousand years ago. The mannequin wore a plastic green reproduction hair pin as part of the ensemble.   
"Empress Wu Zetian. Only woman to rule Imperial China. This costume is a mock-up of course. She lived fourteen hundred years ago. Nothing of hers has survived."  
"You're sure about that?" You say.   
"You hear rumours. The Chinese are always uncovering new artefacts. Anything of hers would be worth... millions."  
Sherlock produces the pin.  
"I wonder - could you find a place for this, somewhere in the display?"  
The museum director's eyes wide blew wide open. She looked at the pin and immediately knows its true value.

The three of you left. Andy was waiting for you. by the exit.  
"Almost the last thing she said to me... you have to look hard at something to see its value. I knew she was a sweet girl. But truly - I never knew how brave she was as well."   
John smiles sadly, and walked past him. He then did a full 180 and comes back.  
"That list of benefactors - on the gallery wall. What sort of donation would I need?"  
He hands Andy the envelope from Seb. Andy opens it and his eyes widen.  
"This would certainly cover it. What name?"  
"Three words." He smiled.  
"Of course. 'Holmes and Watsons '."   
"No. No. Soo Lin Ya." With that he caught up with you and Sherlock. 

At breakfast the three of you sat, reading the papers - the jade hairpin is the headline.  
"Over a thousand years old. And it's sitting on her bedside table every night."  
"He didn't know it's value; didn't know why they were chasing him." You replied  
"Should have just bought her a lucky cat." You and your brother chuckled.  
Sherlock remained silent almost sad.  
"You mind, don't you?" You said.  
"What?" He blinked at you.  
"She escaped. General Shan. Not enough that we got her two henchmen."  
"It must be a vast network. Thousands of operatives. We barely scratched the surface."  
"You cracked the code though, Sherlock. Maybe Dimmock can track them all down. Now that he knows it."  
"We cracked the code, yes. All the smugglers have to do is to pick up another book."  
John glanced through the window - across the street. A young oriental teenager is spraying graffiti on a wall, then he turned to his laptop and started writing.


	13. A New Case

It was one in the morning when three gunshots sounded off in the living room, startling you awake. You run barefoot to see Sherlock letting fly at the wall with a revolver. He'd drawn a smiley face on the wall with the yellow aerosol he had taken from your last case, and it now has bullet holes for eyes and a mouth. The door flew open and John tumbled inside. Back from a night out you assumed. Another two shots.  
"Bored. Bored!" Sherlock shouted.  
"What the hell are you doing?!" John shiuted  
"Bored." He repeated  
"What?" You say angrily  
"Bored. I don't know what's got into the criminal classes. It's a good job I'm not one of them." He said.  
"So you take it out on the wall?" You snapped  
"The wall had it coming."  
"It's a wall, Sherlock! And it's one in the morning!"  
You stormed over to him and snatched the gun from him.   
"Hey!" He shouted.  
"If you wake me up at three in the morning ever again you will be the next thing to have a bullet hole in you." You snapped, aiming the gun at him. John chuckled.  
"She told you, Sherlock." He said, clearly finding the situation hilarious.  
"Go to bed." You pointed the gun at him and he also retreated. "You too." You snapped at Sherlock.  
You plonked yourself on the couch, waiting for the two of them to go.

John walked through the living room and into the kitchen.  
"What about that Russian case?" He asked sherlock.   
"Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time."   
"Shame. Anything in? I'm starving."  
You heard the fridge door open followed by John gasping and scurrying away. "A head. A severed head."  
"Just tea for me, thanks." Sherlock smirked.  
"There's a head in the fridge!" John repeated, completely shocked.   
"Yes."  
"A head!?" You get up and stormed to the fridge. John was right, there was a severed head in the fridge.  
"Sherlock! That's where we keep our bloody food!" You swore.  
"Had to put it somewhere. You don't mind, do you? Got it from Bart's morgue. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death."   
"Don't mind!?" Sherlock cut you off.  
"I see you've written up the Taxi Driver case." He turned to John.   
"Um...yeah." John said, clearly still distracted by the head staring at him from the fridge.   
You slammed the fridge door shut.   
"'A Study in Pink'. Nice." Sherlock stated  
"Well, you know. Pink lady, pink case, pink phone. There was a lot of pink. Did you like it?"  
"Er...no." Sherlock said, extending the 'o' sound.  
"Why not? I thought you'd be...flattered." You chuckled.   
"Flattered?" He began to read from the blog. "Sherlock sees right through everyone and everything in seconds. What's incredible, though is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things."  
"Hang on, I didn't mean-"  
"What, you meant "spectacularly ignorant" in a nice way? Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister. Or who's sleeping with who."  
"Or that the earth goes round the Sun?" You state  
"Oh that again. It's not important."  
"Not important! It's primary school stuff! How can you not know that!" John exclaimed.   
"If I ever did, I've deleted it."   
"Deleted it?" You cocked your head.  
"Don't you do that?"   
"Listen." He jabs a long finger at his temple. "This is my hard drive. Only  
makes sense to put stuff in there that's  
useful. Really useful. Ordinary people fill their brains with all kinds of rubbish. And then it's impossible to get at the stuff that matters. You follow?" He seemed genuinely quite fired up about this.  
"But it's the Solar System-!" John exclaimed  
"What the hell does that matter? So we go around the Sun! If we went round the Moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear." He sang childishly. "It wouldn't make any difference. All that matters is the work. Without it, my brain rots. Put that in your blog. Or, better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world." You bit your lip. He'd gone too far with the last part. John glared at him, then his eyes flicked to you for help. You shrug, not knowing what to do, then he heads for the door.  
"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked  
"Out!" He said pointedly. "I need some air."  
He leaves, almost colliding with Mrs Hudson on the stairs.  
"Oh, sorry, love." She smiled at him.  
"Sorry." He muttered, and with that, he's gone. Mrs Hudson looked at him as he retreated outside and then over to Sherlock.  
"You two had a little...domestic?" You chuckled.  
Sherlock got up and stared moodily out of the window. He watched John leave the house.  
"Look at that, Mrs Hudson. Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn't it hateful?" You smirk. So melodramatic.  
"I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock. A nice murder! That'll cheer you up."  
"Can't come too soon." Sherlock muttered.  
"And while Johns our you two can have some alone time! You don't get much of that do you." You winked at you.  
"No we're not-" you go to say, but then decided it's best not to protest, only makes thinks more complicated. Mrs Hudson suddenly noticed the bullet-pocked plaster.  
"Oi! What have you done to my bloody wall!"  
Smiling, Sherlock turns to her and --  
BOOM! The empty house opposite explodes in a huge fireball. All the windows shatter, Sherlock throws himself onto Mrs Hudson and you and the three of you fall to the floor.

Mycroft arrived not long after the explosion. You had sustained some minor injuries from the glass, a gash on your shoulder and a small cut on your forehead, but nothing else. Mrs Hudson was practically unscathed and Sherlock's injuries almost mirrored your own. Mycroft was asking about a new case.   
"I can't." Sherlock responded bluntly.  
"Can't?" The eldest Holmes boy raised his eyebrows like he'd taken offence.  
"It's impossible at the moment. Hi John."   
You turned to the door to see your brothers worried face appear at the door.  
"Are you ok? I saw it on the TV-"  
"What? Oh. Yeah. Gas leak, apparently." He said before turning back to Mycroft. "The stuff I've got on is too big. I just can't spare the time."  
"This is of national importance!" Mycroft spat.  
"How's the diet?" Sherlock changed the subject rapidly.  
"Fine..." Mycroft adjusted his waistcoat.  
"Maybe you can get through to him." He said to both you and John.  
"What?" John asked, wondering what he'd walked into.  
"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent."   
"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" You offered.  
"No, no, no. I can't possibly leave  
the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections so near-" He stopped and smiles sweetly. Obviously fake. "Yes, well, you don't need to know  
about that, do you? Besides, a case like this. It requires... leg-work." He said with infinite disdain.  
"How's Sarah? How was the li-lo?" You say, turning to your brother.  
"Sofa. It was the sofa." Sherlock corrected you.  
"Of course." You nodded.   
"How - ? Never mind."  
Mycroft looked searchingly at John.  
"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you three became...pals. What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine?"  
"We're never bored."  
"Sherlock certainly is." You muttered, looking at the wall that he had shot up earlier.  
"Good! That's good, isn't it? He's a real live wire, is Sherlock. When we were children, he worked out from the angle of the car seats and a smear of lipstick in the back of the Audi that Dad was having it off with the au pair. I'm afraid Mum wasn't too pleased and that was that. Bang went our happy home." It hit you that you did the exact same thing.  
John gazes levelly at Sherlock, then at you, like he was comparing you both.  
"Such a clever boy, but he really should have got his priorities right. Like now." Mycroft held up some documents. "Andrew West. Known as "Westie" to his friends. Civil servant. Found dead on the rails at Battersea station this morning. Head smashed in."  
"Jumped in front of a train?" John suggested  
"That seems the logical assumption." Mycroft stated.  
"But?" You ask.  
"But?" Mycroft repeated.  
"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident." You say, flipping through a book. Mycroft frowned before speaking.  
"Ha!" Your comment seemed to tickle Sherlock.   
"The Ministry of Defence has been working on a new missile defence system. The Bruce-Partington Program, it's called. And the plans for it were on a memory stick."  
"That wasn't very clever." John sighed.  
"It's not the only copy. But it is secret. And missing."  
"Top secret?" You repeated with silent delight.  
"Very. We think West must've taken the memory stick and we can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands. You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."  
"Like to see you try." Sherlock sneered.  
"Think it over." Mycroft winces slightly, touches his jaw, then takes John's hand and shakes it.  
"Good bye, John. (Y/N)." He nodded to you.  
"See you very soon." He said pointedly. He left, closing the door. Sherlock picked up his violin and started sawing away at it with furious energy.  
"Why did you lie?" You ask him, cutting off the music.  
"What?"  
"You've got nothing on. Not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"   
"Why shouldn't I?"  
"Oh. Sibling rivalry. Nice. Now we're getting somewhere. Sherlock's got a past!" You and join shared a light laughs before it got cut off by Sherlock's phone ringing..  
"Sherlock Holmes." He answered, then listened intently. "How could I refuse?" He smiled and then hung up. "Lestrade. I am summoned. Coming?"   
"If you want me to." John sighed.   
"Of course! I'm lost without my blogger!" He smiled.  
You hauled yourself off the couch and out the door.

You arrived at the bleakly modern office, filled with strip-lights, wilting pot plants. Lestrade stood at a filing cabinet. The three of you enter.  
"You only like the funny cases, don't you? The surprising ones?" Lestrade said as he filed some papers away.  
"Obviously."  
"You're gonna love this." He turned to you. "Hi." He smiled, as he gave you a warm hug. "How're you doing?"   
You nodded. "I'm ok." You saw his eyes flick to Sherlock and then he looked away awkwardly, like he'd just remembered that he had walked in on you and him in the hotel room. "John." He nodded curtly to your brother, after clearing his throat.  
"Inspector." John shook just hand.  
"That explosion." Lestrade started.  
"Gas leak, yes?" Lestrade shook his head.  
"No?" You raised a brow.  
"Made to look like one. Explosives." Lestrade state's.  
"What?" John's face fell.  
"Hardly anything left of the place. Except a strong box. A very strong box. And inside it was this."   
He handed an envelope across to Sherlock. It was good quality. Cream-coloured. On it in spidery writing spelling out Sherlock Holmes. Handwritten. Sherlock looked up, surprised.  
"You haven't opened it?"  
"Addressed to you, isn't it? We've X- rayed it. Not booby trapped." Lestrade stated  
"How reassuring." Sherlock looks closely at the envelope.  
"Nice stationery. Bohemian." You stated.   
"From the Czech Republic. No finger-prints?"  
Lestrade shook his head.  
"She used a fountain pen. Parker Duofold. Iridium nib." Sherlock concluded.   
"She?" John asked  
"Obviously."  
"Obviously." John mimicked.  
Carefully, Sherlock opened the envelope. From inside tumbles an iPhone. But not any old phone - a pink covered phone.  
"But that's - that's the phone, the pink phone..." John stuttered.  
"What, from 'A Study in Pink'?" Lestrade asked  
"Well it isn't, of course, but it's supposed to look like it-" he breaks off, then looks at Lestrade. "'A Study in Pink' - you read his blog??" He cocked his brow.  
"'Course I read his blog, we all do. Do you really not know the Earth goes round the Sun?"   
A snort of laughter echoed from a few desks away. Sherlock glanced round. Sally Donovan was sat there, pretending she hadn't been listening. Sherlock moved on swiftly.  
"It's not the same phone, this one's brand new. But someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone, which suggests your blog has a wider readership." He said, firing an unimpressed look at the eldest Watson. He turned on the phone and, super-quick, keys in a retrieval code. He put the the phone on loud speaker.  
"You have one new message." The phone informed you. You all listen, raptly. Five loud beeps sounded from the phone.   
"That's it?" John asked.  
You look closely on the screen- a photo is downloading.  
"No, that's not it." You say.  
Sherlock tapped on the screen and opened up the photo. The inside of a bare, empty flat.  
"What the hell are we supposed to make of that? An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!" Lestrade snapped, picking up the phone.  
"It's a warning." Sherlock said gravely.  
"A warning?" John asked.  
Sherlock grabs the phone from Lestrade.  
"Some secret societies used to send dried Melon seeds. Orange pips. Things like that. Five pips! They're warning us that it's going to happen again."  
You stared blankly at the phone, then it hit you.   
"I've seen this place before!" Sherlock looked at you and smirked, you were on the exact same track again.  
"Hang on. What's going to happen again?" John asked.  
"Boom!" Sherlock said before running out the door after you. 

The cab screeches to a halt outside your flat.  
You almost fling yourself out of it. Behind you closely followed, John, Lestrade and Sherlock. But you head not for the front door but down the steps to the basement level; where a neglected door stood, on the wall next it sat a grimy intercom system. Almost hidden by grime the number 221c say. Sherlock ran off, and shortly returned with Mrs Hudson who held with a bunch of keys. She sorted through them swiftly, finding the right key almost instantly.   
"He had a look, didn't you, Sherlock, when you first came to see about the flat? I can't get anyone interested in it. The damp I expect. It's the curse of basements." She sighed   
Sherlock practically had his face pressed to the door, impatient to get inside.   
"I had a place once, when I was first married, black mould all up the walls, it was like a weight on your chest-"  
"Door's been opened. Recently." He said, pulling away from the door.  
"No. Can't have been. This is the only key."  
Sherlock just took the key off her, inserted it into the lock and pushed the door slowly open. 

Inside was a bare room. Pale daylight spilling through the dusty net curtains. In the centre of the room: a pair of battered trainers.  
"Shoes?" John asked, dumbfounded as to why there were shoes in the middle of the otherwise empty apartment.   
"Now, I've had Mr Merryman round to  
look at the damage-" Mrs Hudson started before Sherlock shut the door in her face. Then he quickly examined the rest of the room, getting down onto the bare floorboards to stare at the shoes.  
Suddenly the Pink phone started ringing in Sherlock's hand. He answered it, putting it on speaker so everyone can hear.  
"Hello?" He called out.  
And then, over the phone, a terrible whimpering, sniffling- a woman crying. As she spoke her voice was shaky and wracked with sobs.  
"Hello, sexy." The voice on the other side of the phone said. Your brow instinctively raised. Who is this?  
"Who is this?" Sherlock asked  
"I've sent you...a little puzzle...just to say...hi."  
You all exchanged confused looks.   
What?? Such a weird contrast between the voice and the words.  
"Who's talking? Are you crying?"  
"I'm not crying...I'm typing."  
You all look at each other again.  
What the hell? Typing?  
"And this stupid bitch...is reading it out."  
A real thud of realisation hit you as you worked out what's happening. Sherlock's eyes are shining..  
"The curtain rises..." he said under his breath  
"What?" John looked horrified  
"Nothing."  
"No. What do you mean?" John pressed  
"Just that I've been expecting something like this."  
"Twelve hours to solve my puzzle,  
Sherlock. Or I'm going to be so naughty."  
The woman started sobbing her heart out, the sound filled the room. Lestrade and John looked horrified. Sherlock was cold, bemused- fascinated. You were a mix of all of them. A click signalled the end of the call. Silence filled the room. 

You had travelled over to Barts hospital. Sherlock minutely examined the trainers under the microscope. He was totally and eerily focussed on his work. John paced restlessly next to him, clearly still chilled by what he heard.  
"Who do you suppose it was? The woman on the phone - the crying woman?"  
"Oh, she doesn't matter. Just a hostage. There's no lead there." Sherlock said coldly.  
"For God's sake, I wasn't thinking about leads!" He was emotional.  
"Then you're not going to be much use to her."  
John looked at you hopelessly, like he was begging for your help.  
"He's right." You hated to admit. "Emotions will only make us slower. If we're going to save her we need to keep calm and work."  
"Are they trying to trace it? Trace the call?" John looked to Lestrade. Sherlock's phone beeped. A text.  
"The bomber's too clever for that. Pass me my phone." Sherlock stepped aside, handing you the microscope so you could study the shoes. You looked through the glass. Huge, alien-looking clusters filled your vision. You recognised it as pollen.  
"Where is it?"  
"Jacket."  
John looks round and then realised Sherlock is wearing his jacket. Used to this behaviour, John pulled Sherlock's phone from his jacket pocket with an irritated sigh.  
"Text, from your brother." He stated  
"Delete it." Sherlock dismissed  
"Delete it?"  
"Those missile plans will be out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it." You say.  
"Mycroft thinks there is." John turned again to Sherlock. "He's texted you eight times. Must be important."  
"Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"  
"His what?"  
"Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look, Andrew West stole the plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains - end of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when someone else is being so delightfully interesting?" John looked just a little appalled at his friend.  
"Yeah, try and remember there's a woman who might die!" He scolded   
"What for? This hospital is full of dying people, Doctor. Go and cry at their bedsides, see what good it does them." Sherlock said. You shoot a warning look at Sherlock to tell him that he's gone too far.  
His scowl softens when he noticed you. You then moved to the side, he then took the microscope from you and began to look again, then cried out in satisfaction. 

From the door you heard a voice.  
"Any luck?" Molly's voice called out.  
"Oh yes." Sherlock said with a grin. You couldn't help but want to kiss him right now. Focus! You scalded yourself.   
Another Bart's staff member walks in- a man in his 30s, slight, pleasant-looking. He looked familiar but you couldn't place him.  
"Oh. Sorry. Didn't know-"   
"Jim! Hi! Come in, come in. Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes." She gazes doe-eyed at Sherlock, then remembers the Watson siblings..  
"And - Oh ...er...sorry." Her mind blanked.  
"John Watson. Hi."  
"Hi." He stared at you, but you were busy trying to remember if you'd seen his face before. He waved at you, and you snapped out of it.  
"That's (y/n)." John added for you.   
"So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?" Him said, smiling at Sherlock. Sherlock didn't even look up.  
"Jim works in IT upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance!" Sherlock glances up at Jim, briefly, his brow furrowed.   
Liar. You're still head over heels with Sherlock  
To tease her you brushed your hand over Sherlock's and you could see her flinch.  
"Gay." He stated.  
"...sorry, what?" You smacked Sherlock's hand.  
"Nothing. Um. Hey." He corrected himself unconvincingly. Jim knocked into a kidney-dish which clatters to the floor.   
"Hey!" Sherlock repeated  
"Sorry. Sorry."   
He handed the dish back to Sherlock. Sherlock glanced inside, then looks up, twinkling a little.  
"Well, I'd better be off. See you at the Fox? Sixish?"   
"Yeah." Molly smiled.  
"Bye, then. Nice to meet you." He said to John.   
"You too." Your brother replied. Jim left with a huge smile on his face.  
"What do you mean, gay? We're together." She stated angrily.  
"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."  
"Two and a half!" She looked mortified.  
"Sherlock..." John warned.  
"He's not gay! Why do you have to spoil - He's not!" She insisted. You could see tears about to spill out of her eyes.   
"With that level of personal grooming?" He stated.  
"What? A bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair." John retorted  
"You wash your hair. There's a difference. No, no. Tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines and those tired, clubber's eyes- then there's his underwear."  
"Sherlock that's enough." You say, he was going to stop until molly asks more questions.  
"His underwear?" She blinked in disbelief.   
"Visible above his waist. Very visible. Very particular brand. That plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just dropped his phone number in this dish and I'd say you'd better spare yourself the pain and break if off now." You glared at him as Molly burst into tears and ran out of the room.

"Charming. Well done." You snapped.  
"Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?"  
"Kinder? No, Sherlock. That wasn't kind." John added. He looks anxiously at his watch. Sherlock chucked the trainers across to him.  
"Go on, then."  
"No."  
"Go on." Sherlock pressed  
"No! I'm not going to sit here so you can humiliate-"  
"An outside eye. A second opinion.  
It's very useful to me." John shot him a suspicious look.  
"Eh?"  
"You know what I do. Off you go."  
"Really?" John shrugs. Accepts.  
"They're just a pair of shoes- Trainers."  
"Good." Sherlock nodded, waiting for more.  
John turned them over in his hands. Sherlock started tapping away on his PDA.  
"Well, they're in good nick. I'd say  
they were pretty new but-" he examined the soles.  
"The soles are well-worn so the owner has had them for a while. Very 80s. Probably one of those retro designs."  
"You're on sparkling form! What else?" Sherlock encouraged.  
What? No he's not. There's nothing important there.  
"They're pretty big but-"  
Sherlock gave an encouraging smile to John. John suddenly beamed, holding out the shoe. Showing a completely blurred, felt- tipped name.   
"There's traces of a name inside! In felt tip. Grown-ups don't put their names in their shoes. They belonged to a kid."  
"Excellent. What else?" Sherlock said sincerely.   
"That's it." He seemed extremely pleased with himself.  
"That's it?" Sherlock asked  
"How did I do?"  
"Really well, John. Really well."  
John beamed .  
"I mean you've missed almost everything of importance but, you know..."   
Sherlock takes the trainers from him and then tossed them to you.  
"Go ahead, (y/n)." He nodded at you. You didn't want to show John up, but at the same time you wanted to show off.  
"The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they've got discoloured and changed the laces three...no, four times. Even so, there're traces of flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them. So he suffered from eczema. The trainers are well-worn but much more so on the inner side. Which means the owner had weak arches." You said. You reluctantly sniffed the shoes. "British made. And twenty years old."  
"Twenty years? How did you-?"  
"Not retro. They're original. Limited edition. Two blue stripes. 1989."  
"But they've still got mud on them. They look new."  
"Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex but with London mud overlaying it." You said darkly.  
"How do you know?"  
You gestured at the microscope.  
"Pollen. Clear as a map reference. South of the river too. So the child who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind."  
"So what happened to them?"  
"Something bad. He loved these  
shoes, remember? Wouldn't leave them filthy. Wouldn't let them go unless he had no choice. So kid with big feet gets..." Your brother stared at you in awe.   
"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, clapping his hands together.  
"What-?"  
"Carl Powers!" He exclaimed again.  
"Who?" You asked.  
"It's where I began."


	14. The Baker Street Regulars

You sat in the back of the cab, leaning over sherlocks shoulder to read the page on Sherlock's phone. It was a page from an old newspaper. 'Tragic Carl died "doing what he loved"' Under it, a photo of a cheerful-looking twelve year old boy.  
"1989. Young kid, champion swimmer, came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament, drowned in the pool. Tragic accident. You won't remember it. Why should you?" Sherlock stated.   
"But you remember?"John raised a brow.  
"There was something fishy about it?" You asked  
"Nobody thought so. Nobody except me. I was only a child myself. I read about it in the paper."  
"Started young, didn't you?" John teased.  
"The boy Carl Powers had some sort of fit in the water. By the time they got him out, it was too late. But there was something wrong. Something I couldn't get out of my head."  
"What?"   
"His shoes."   
"What about them?" John said calmly.  
"They weren't there. I made a bit of a fuss. Tried to get the police interested. But no-one thought it was important. He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, you see. But there was no sign of his shoes."  
"Until now." You said, with a sigh.

Across the steel draining board of the flat's ex- kitchen sink. The trainers were in bits, sliced up by the scalpel that gleamed next to them. String had been pinned up from corner to corner and bits of the trainers hung from them like photos in a dark-room.  
Sherlock sat poring over police documents. John popped his head through the plastic-strip curtain.  
"Can I help? I want to help. There's only five hours left." He said His mobile pinged. John glanced at it.  
"Mycroft. He's texting me now." He sighed irritably. "How does he know my - ?"  
"Must be a root canal." You say, going off what Sherlock had said earlier. 'Mycroft never texts if he can talk.'   
"He did say "national importance"." John said.  
"How quaint."  
"What is?"  
"You are. "Queen and Country"."  
"You can't just ignore it!"  
"I'm not ignoring it. I'm putting my best man onto it right now."  
"Ok. Good. Who's that?"  
"You."  
After some protests, John left the house to meet with Mycroft. 

Sherlock hadn't moved from hunched over the telescope since John had left. Mrs Hudson has made you both numerous cups of tea, you had finished all of yours, but Sherlock didn't touch his.  
"Don't know why I bother." The landlady muttered as she came into view with a fresh cup on a tray. Sherlock didn't look up from the microscope.  
"I'm not your housekeeper." She said.  
Sherlock suddenly sat back, eyes glittering with triumph.  
"Poison." He stated.  
"I know. It's the caffeine. How about Camomile?" Mrs Hudson softened, thinking he was talking to her.  
"Clever. Clever."   
"What are you on about?" Mrs Hudson asked.  
John arrived back home. Sherlock looked up at him, thrilled.  
"Clostridium botulinim. One of the deadliest poisons on earth!"  
"How about you, love? Do you want his tea?"  
Sherlock looked at Mrs Hudson, like he was noticing her for the first time.  
"Out! Out! Out!" He said, and shooed her out of the room.  
"What? Carl Powers was murdered?" John asked.  
"Remember the shoe-laces? The boy  
suffered from eczema. It would be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. A few hours later he came up to London for the swimming competition, the poison took effect, paralysed the muscles and he drowned."  
"How come the autopsy didn't - ?" John blinked.  
"Virtually undetectable. And no-one  
would've been looking for it." He said excitedly  
"But there were tiny traces still inside the trainers. From where he'd rubbed the cream into his feet. That's why they had to go!"  
"So how do we let the bomber know?"  
"We get his attention."   
You finished typing, sitting back and reading it outloud. An entry on John's blog - "'FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978- 1989). Botulinim toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St'."  
"Stop the clock." Sherlock said happily.  
"The killer's kept the shoes? All these years?" John asked.   
"Yes. Meaning-"  
"He's our bomber." You finished. The pink iPhone chimes. Sherlock and John exchanged glances. Then you rapidly reach for the phone and put it on speaker.  
"Well...done you. Come...and get me." The crying woman suddenly turned desperate.  
"Help me! For God's sake, please help me!" She sobbed.   
"Where are you? Tell us where you are!!" You urged the woman.

Once again you found yourself in Lestrade's office. On his desk lashed a pager and mobile phone; the ones taken from the crying woman.  
"She lives in Cornwall. Two men broke in. Wearing masks. Decked her out in enough explosive to take down the house and told her to phone you.l  
Sherlock examinined the pager and mobile, fascinated.  
"She had to read out from this." He pointed you a piece of paper.  
"And if she'd deviated by one word, the sniper would've set her off." You frowned.  
"Or if you hadn't solved the case." Lestrade said.  
"Oh! Elegant!"  
"Elegant?" John said with displeasure.  
"But what was the point? Why would anyone do this?" Lestrade asked.  
"Well...I can't be the only person in the world who gets bored." Sherlock frowned.  
Sherlock rapidly keyed in the retrieval code.  
"You have one new message." The mechanical voice informed you. It beeped four times this time.   
"Four pips!" John mused.  
"First test passed, it seems. Here's the second one." Sherlock claimed, with a certain brightness in his voice. A picture appears. A flashy sports-car, with all its doors wide open.  
"Abandoned, wouldn't you say?"  
"I'll see if it's been reported." Lestrade says but as he reached for his phone, Sally is calling over from the desk.  
"Freak's girlfriend!" Sherlock and you both turn, your face grew red- John wasn't pleased either. Sally held out her phone, looking a little bemused.  
"It's for you." You took the phone.  
"Hello?"  
"It's ok...that you've gone to the police..."  
"Who is this? Is this you again?"  
"...but don't rely on them. Clever you. Guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him. I had a little theory. About asteroids. Carl laughed at me. So I stopped him laughing."  
"And you've stolen another voice, I presume."  
"...this is about you, me and Sherlock."  
"Who are you?" You frown and listen intently to the mass of background noise you can hear. "What's that noise?"  
"The sounds...of life... (y/n). But don't worry...I can soon fix that." You listen, urgent, focussed.  
"You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. This time you have eight." The phone goes dead in your ear. You hung up, solemn, troubled. A different phone rings. Lestrade answered.  
"Yeah?" He listens for a moment. "We've found it!" He says to the room. He gave you the address and the four of you raced off together.

The sports-car was surrounded by a police cordon.  
"The car was hired yesterday morning by an Ian Monkford. Banker of some kind. City boy. Paid in cash. He told his wife he was going away on a business trip. He never arrived."  
You peered in through the wide open back door of the car. The back seat- covered in blood.   
"You're still hanging around him." Sally said to you.  
"Evidentially." You were stilled annoyed that she had addressed you as "Freak's Girlfriend"   
"Opposites attract, I suppose."  
"What? We're not-" you flustered.  
"You should get yourself a hobby. Stamps, maybe. Model trains. Safer." She spoke over you.  
"Before you ask. Yes. It's Mulcaster's blood. DNA checks out."  
You pulled back from the car holding a business card.  
"But no body?" Sherlock asked  
"Not yet."  
Sherlock marched off. John and you follow. Sherlock noticed a distressed-looking woman standing close by with a WPC  
"Mrs Monkford?" Sherlock approached  
The woman turns. She was roughly 30, very pretty. Right now she looked tired, drawn.  
"Yes? Listen, sorry, I've already spoken to two policemen..." her eyes were red.  
"We're not the police, we're-" John began, but Sherlock interrupted him.  
"Sherlock Holmes. Very old friend of your husband's. We grew up together."  
"I'm sorry, who? I don't think he  
ever mentioned you." She frowned  
"Oh he must have. God, this is horrible, isn't it? Can't believe it. Only saw him the other day. Same old Ian, not a care in the world."   
"Sorry, but my husband's been depressed for months. Who are you??" She said, getting cross.  
"Really strange that he hired a car, though, why would he do that? Bit suspicious."  
"No it isn't. He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all."  
"Well, that's Ian for you, isn't it - that was him all over!" Sherlock laughed  
"No it wasn't." She almost shouted.  
Sherlock dropped all pretence.  
"Wasn't it? Interesting."  
He turns and starts heading away.  
"Who was that? Who was I talking to?" Mrs Monkford demanded. The officer she was standing with just shrugged. You all were striding away quickly.  
"Why did you lie to her?" John asked  
"People don't like telling you things. But they love to contradict you. Past tense - did you notice?" He smirked.  
"Sorry, what?"  
"I referred to her husband in the  
past tense and then she joined in. Bit premature, they only just found the car."  
"What, you think she killed her husband?"  
"Definitely not. That's not a mistake a murderer would make." You say.  
"I see. No, I don't. What am I seeing."  
"Fishing! Try fishing." Sally shouted to you. You ignored her. John and Sherlock looked at you with quizzically, and you replied with a simple shrug.  
"Where now?" John asked.  
You held out the business card. Janus Cars.

Sherlock and John sat opposite a flashily dressed, tanned man. The wall behind him is covered in pictures of cars. You stand by the door, leaning casually.   
"Can't see how I can help, gentlemen." He glanced to you. "And lady." He nodded to you.  
John browsed the notes.  
"Mr Monkford hired the car from you yesterday."  
"Yup. Lovely motor. Nissan 350Z. Wouldn't mind one of them myself."  
Sherlock pointed at some pictures low down on the wall. Is that one? Ewart turned in his swivel chair, bending low.  
"Nah. They're all Jags. I can see you're not a car man." He smiled.  
"Surely you can afford one? A Nissan, I mean." You say.  
"Fair point! But, you know how it  
is. It's like working in a sweet shop. Once you start picking at the Liquorice Allsorts, where does it stop?" He scratched his upper arm.  
“You didn't know Mr Monkford?” John pressed  
“No.”  
“He was just a client. Walked in here and hired one of my cars. I've no idea what happened to him, poor sod.”  
“Nice holiday, Mr Ewart?” You finally say.  
“Eh?”  
“You've been abroad, haven't you?” You ask again.  
“This, you mean?” He gestured to his tanned face. “Nah. Sunbeds, I'm afraid. Too busy to get away. My wife'd love it, though. Bit of sun.”   
You just nod, then you suddenly brightened.  
“D'you have change for the fag machine?”  
“What?” Ewart looked confused.  
“I noticed there was one on the way in and I’m out of change. I’m gasping. Here.” You walk closer and offer him a tenner. Ewart got out his wallet and rifles inside. You smile as you slyly peeped in.  
“Nah. Sorry.” He shrugged, putting the wallet away.  
“Not to worry.” You smirked at Sherlock, he knew exactly what you were doing.  
“Well, thanks for your time, Mr Ewart. You’ve been very helpful.” Sherlock said.  
“What do you reckon happened to him,  
then? Gang stuff, was it? A drive- by?”  
“Something like that, I’m sure. Come on, John.” He gestured for your brother to join you at the door. The three of you leave.   
“I’ve got change if you still-” John offered as you passed the cigarette machine.  
“I’m trying to quit.” You stated.   
“Then what was all that about?”  
“I needed a look in his wallet.”  
“Why?”  
“Because Mr Ewart is a liar.” Sherlock added with a smirk. 

The three of you stood in Scotland Yard’s car pound. Sherlock crouched in the back of the hire-car. He stared intently at the blood-stained back seat then opened a bag containing rows of tiny glass bottles and selects one. In it was a colourless liquid with a pipette in the lid. He dropped a tiny quantity of the stuff onto the blood-stain. A phone rang loudly. Sherlock glances round. It was the pink iPhone. He reached for it.  
“Hello?”  
“The clue’s in the name. Janus Cars.” The mans voice cracked.  
“And why would you be giving us a clue?”  
“Why does anyone do anything? Because I’m bored.”  
You could see sherlocks expression change- that was familiar. You remembered the bullets smashing into the wall of 221b’s living room.   
“We were made for each other, Sherlock. You, me and (Y/N). We’re the same.”  
“Then talk to us with your own voice.”  
“Patience.”  
The line went dead. You felt sick.   
“Made for eachother...” those words stabbed you somehow, but they intrigued Sherlock. He couldn’t help smiling a little which turned into a beaming grin at something he saw. The blood-stain.  
“How much blood is on the seat, would you say?”  
He bobbed back out of the car. Lestrade has joined the three of you.  
“How much? About a pint.” Lestrade guesses.  
“Not about. Exactly a pint. That was their first mistake. The blood is definitely Monkford’s. But it’s been frozen.” Sherlock beamed.  
“Frozen?” John blinked.  
“There are clear signs. I think Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago. And that’s what they spread all over the seat.”   
“Who did?” Then it hit you.   
“Janus Cars. The clue’s in the name. The God with two faces. God of beginnings, gates, transitions, time, duality, doorways, passages, and endings.” You stated, eyes widened, surprised you only just realised this.  
“Exactly. They provide a very special service. If you’ve got problems. Money troubles. Bad marriage. Whatever. Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble - financial at a guess, he’s a banker. Couldn’t see a way out. But if he were to vanish. If the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the back seat...”  
“So where is he?” Lestrade pressed impatiently.   
“Colombia.” You state  
“Colombia?” John repeated, not knowing how you’d drawn this conclusion.  
“Mr Ewart of Janus Cars had a Twenty  
thousand Colombian peso note in his wallet and quite a bit of change too.” You smiled.   
“He told us he hadn’t been abroad  
recently but when I asked him about the cars I could clearly see the tan-line. No-one wears a shirt on a sun- bed. That plus his arm.” You nodded as Sherlock spoke.  
“His arm?” Lestrade asked quizzically.  
“He kept scratching it. Obviously irritating him. And bleeding. Why? Because he’s recently had a  
booster jab. Hep B, probably. Hard to tell at that distance.” You said.  
“Conclusion: he’s just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Colombia. Mrs Monkford eventually cashes in the life insurance and she splits it with Janus Cars.” Sherlock smiled.  
“Mrs Monkford?” Lestrade again looked dumbfounded.  
“Oh yes. She’s in on it too. Now go and arrest them, Inspector. That’s what you do best. We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved!”  
Sherlock looked at his watch.  
“I am on fire!” You coughed. “We-” he corrected himself.

In Lestrade’s office Sherlock tapped away on the computer.  
Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Colombia.   
He posted on John’s blog. The four of you wait intensely.  
The pink iPhone rung and broke the tense silence, Sherlock snatched it up.  
“He says...you can...come and fetch me. Help! Help me please!!” The man sobbed. 

The next morning the Baker Street regulars sat in a small, greasy breakfast cafe. Each table hosted plastic ketchup tomatoes, smeared menus and truck drivers. A battered TV on a shelf, sound turned down, was showing bland daytime TV.  
John was shovelling bacon into his face. Sherlock and you sat opposite, Sherlock anxiously biting his nails. The pink iPhone was on the table in front of you.  
“Feeling better?” Sherlock asked John.  
“Mm! Christ, we haven’t stopped for breath since this thing started.” He said, barely chewing. He eats on.  
“Has it occurred to you-” John started again  
“Probably.” Sherlock interrupted  
“The bomber’s playing a game with the two of you. The envelope. Breaking into the other flat. The dead kid’s shoes. It’s all meant for you.” Sherlock cast a small glance at you with a little smile.  
“Yes. I know.”  
“So? What you talked to Lestrade about. Is it...them?”  
“Them?”  
“This...organization. Crime Ltd... Whatever!”  
“Moriarty.” You stated  
“Perhaps.”  
The iPhone beeps. The three of you exchange glances.  
“You have one new message.” The robotic voice said once again. Three beeps this time. Another picture appears. A hard-faced, middle-aged woman with heavily mascara-covered eyes. You stare at it.  
“Could be anyone.”  
“Could be. Lucky for you, I’ve been more than a little unemployed.” You’d smirked.  
“What do you mean?” Sherlock raised a brow  
“Lucky for you that Mrs Hudson and I watch far too much telly.”  
You get up and picked up the grubby TV remote, flicking through the channels. Sherlock, puzzled, made to follow when the pink iPhone rings.  
“Hello?” He answered.  
“This one...is a bit...defective. Sorry...she’s...blind.”  
She’s crying, scared to death. Her accent suggested she was Welsh. “This is...a fun...one. I’ll give you...twelve hours...” the poor old lady sobbed.   
“Why are you doing this?”  
“I like...to watch you...dance.”  
The line goes dead once again. He glanced over at you. You’d found what you was looking for while listening to the call. A news channel with the same, hard-faced woman prominent on the screen. Under the photo a running strap-line.   
“Make-over queen Connie Prince dead at 48”. A clip of a ‘Ten Years Younger’ type show with Connie supervising a make-over for a plump, vaguely camp man.  
“There’s really only one thing we can do with that ensemble, don’t you think?” The woman saidZ  
An unseen audience start baying ‘Off! Off! Off!’  
The grins long-sufferingly as Connie starts to pull down his trousers.  
“That’s her. The woman in the photo.” John said. You nodded.  
“Fancy a trip to the morgue?” You smirked at Sherlock.


	15. A Break In The Pattern

Connie Prince lay prone on the morgue slab. You stood with Lestrade.  
"Connie Prince. 48. Had one of those make-over shows on the telly."  
Lestrade looked at a file and was impressed by the figures.  
"Very popular. She was going places."  
"Not any more. So, dead two days. According to one of her staff - Raoul de Santos - she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden."  
You looked at Connie Prince's hand. There was a deep cut between her fingers.  
"Nasty wound. Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream. Good night, Vienna." You sighed.  
"So...what's wrong with this picture?" Sherlock asked, scamming the corpse.  
"Eh?" This confused sound came from Lestrade. Further up Connie's arm, there was a scratch, very faint. Sherlock glanced at it.  
"Can't be as simple as it seems or the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong."   
He gets out a magnifying lens and quickly examines the scratch. Then suddenly he moves up to Connie's face and passes the lens over her forehead.  
"John. That cut on her hand. Would have bled a lot, wouldn't it?"   
John nodded. "Yes."  
"But the wound is clean. Very clean. And fresh. How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?" Sherlock added  
"Um - eight...ten days."  
"The cut was made later?"   
"After she was dead?" Lestrade added  
"It has to have been. So, question is, how did the tetanus get into the dead woman's system?" You said.   
"You want to help, right?" Sherlock turned to John.   
"Of course." The eldest Watson said.   
"Connie Prince's background. Family history. Everything. Give me data."  
"Right." John affirmed with a nod before leaving   
"There's something else we haven't thought of." Lestrade scowled.  
"Is there?" Sherlock raised a brow.  
"Yes. Why is he doing this? The bomber. If this woman's death was...suspicious, why point it up?"  
"Good Samaritan?" Sherlock shrugged.  
"Who press-gangs suicide bombers?"  
"Bad Samaritan?" He joked  
"I'm serious, Sherlock! Listen, I'm cutting you slack here. I'm trusting! But out there, somewhere, there's some poor bastard covered in Semtex waiting for you to solve a puzzle. Just tell me something! What is this, what are we dealing with?" Sherlock looked thoughtful and, more disturbingly, inspired.  
"Something new." He responded plainly

Various things had been pinned to the wall in the Baker Street flat. The bomber's hand-written envelope, photos of Carl Powers, The Crying Woman, Ian Monkford's abandoned car and The Terrified Man. Below them hung a map of the London Underground and reams of Sherlock's hand-written notes. Sherlock was tapping away madly at his laptop and cradled his phone under one ear.  
"Great. Thanks. Thanks again." Sherlock said over the phone.  
Mrs Hudson glanced over at a morgue photo of Connie Prince.  
"It's a real shame. I liked her. She taught you how to do your colours." She sighed sadly.  
"Colours?" Lestrade looked more confused than he'd ever been.   
"You know, what goes best with what. I should never wear cerise, apparently. Drains me."  
Lestrade nodded like he didn't care. Sherlock hung up the phone.  
"Who was that?" Lestrade asked.  
"Home Office."  
"Home Office?"  
"Well...Home Secretary. Owes me a favour." Sherlock smiled slightly   
"Pretty girl. Messed about with herself too much. They all do these days. People can hardly move their faces. Silly, isn't it? Did you ever see her show?"  
"Not until now."  
On his laptop screen was another clip from Connie's show. Kenny, her brother, is on too, dressed dowdily. Connie pulled a face.  
"I really don't know where Kenny shops, do you?"   
"I try, Connie. I try."  
"Didn't know there was an Oxfam in Bishop's Avenue!"  
The audience laughed.  
"That's the brother. No love lost there, if you can believe the papers." Mrs Hudson shook her head disapprovingly. Sherlock hit a key causing lots of pop-up windows appear.  
"So I gather. I'm having a very fruitful chat with people who love this show. Fan sites. Indispensable for gossip." Sherlock was still typing madly. An instant message appeared with a photo. A smiling Connie with a skinny, furless cat.

Sherlock stood up and stared at the photo of Connie.   
"Connection, connection, connection. There must be a connection! Carl Powers was murdered twenty years ago. And the bomber knew him. He admitted he knew him..." he mumbled.   
"We should check. His school records. Everything-" Lestrade suggested.  
"I'm already on it." Sherlock said  
"The bomber's phone was inside stationery from the Czech Republic. The first hostage was in Cornwall. The second one in London. The third one, Wales, at least by the sound of her accent. What's he doing? Working his way round the world? Showing off?" You stated, rubbing your temples.  
The pink iPhone rang. Sherlock froze and then quickly grabbed it from the desk to answer it.  
"You're enjoying this...aren't you? Joining the ...dots?"   
Sherlock did not answer.  
"I'll take that...as a yes. Three hours...boom boom." The phone goes dead once again. You threw on your coat and you and Sherlock began to leave the flat. Lestrade was already on the stairs. Your own phone rang, the caller I.D telling you it was John. You put it on speaker so Sherlock could hear.  
"Hello?"  
"It's me. Look, get over here. Quickly. I think I'm onto something."  
"You are?" Sherlock seemed pleasantly shocked.  
"Yes. You'll need to pick some stuff up first. You got a pen?"  
"I'll remember." You reassured him.

You and Sherlock turned up to the in mansion in Hampstead. At first you were almost taken away by how massive it was, although it was completely tasteless. A small Hispanic man answered the door and welcomed you in. You and Sherlock held lots of bulky camera equipment. You arrived to the same room that John was in.   
"Hi! Mr Prince, isn't it? Good to meet you. Very sorry about-" Sherlock cut himself off.  
"Thank you. You're very kind." Kenny went to a mirror and started to preen himself.  
John tugs at Sherlock's sleeve. He's bursting with excitement.  
"Certainly not the way I'd be acting if my sibling just died..." you muttered to John and he responded with a smile.   
"You were right. The bacteria got into her another way!" He turned to Sherlock.   
"Yes?" Sherlock pressed.  
"Yes!" John said in sotto as he picked up the camera.  
"All set?" Kenny asked.  
"Um...yes."  
He nodded towards a light meter. Sherlock picked it up, uncertainly. John then went right up to Kenny with his camera and zooms in on him.  
"Not too close. I'm raw from crying."   
No you're not.  
"Right. Sherlock?"  
"Hm?"  
"Need a light reading."  
"Oh. Erm..."  
He sets off the flash. Kenny blinks.  
"Um...2.8."  
"Right."  
John fiddled clumsily with the camera. Another flash.  
"Look, will this take long?"  
"Half an hour, tops." John assured him.  
A cat wandered in.  
"Oh, who's this?" Sherlock asked.  
"This is Sekhmet. Named after the Egyptian goddess." Kenny smiled fondly.  
"How nice." He stroked the cat.  
"Was she Connie's?" You asked.  
"Yes. Little pressie from yours truly. Connie's life was...very busy. Didn't leave much room for personal things. So I got her Sekhmet to keep her company."  
He scooped up the cat. "Didn't I, puss?" He nuzzled the cat.  
John turned suddenly to Sherlock and you, beaming.  
"Sherlock?"  
"Yes?"  
"Light reading!"   
He grabs the flash gun from Sherlock and fires it off right in Kenny's face. Kenny was blinded and the cat jumped from his arms. In a second, John is on the floor, his face pressed close to the cat.  
"Bloody hell! What do you think  
you're playing at?" Jenny snarled  
"Sorry! Sorry!" Sherlock apologises profusely.  
"You're like Laurel and bloody Hardy, you two! What's going on?"  
"That's all right. I think we've got what we came for." John stared  
"Eh?" Kenny looked confused  
"Come on, Sherlock." You scrambled with Sherlock to collect the equipment   
"We have a deadline." He hurried.  
"But you haven't taken anything!"   
John was already through the door though.

John hurried away from the house, laughing.  
"Yes! Yes!" He almost punched the air. Sherlock smiles kindly.  
"You think it was the cat. It wasn't the cat." He said empathetically  
"What? No! Yes! It is! It must be. That's how he got the tetanus into her system! Its paws stink of disinfectant."  
"It's a lovely idea-"  
"He coated it onto the claws of her cat! It's a new pet. Bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch was almost inevitable. But she'd never pay much attention to it and-"  
"I thought of it as soon as I saw that scratch on her arm. But it's too random. And too clever for the brother." You smiled at John apologetically  
"He murdered his sister for her money! Did he? Didn't he?"  
"No. It was revenge." Sherlock stated  
"Revenge? Who wanted revenge?" John questioned  
"Raoul. The houseboy. Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out. Virtually a bullying campaign. Finally, they fell out. Badly. It's all on the fan sites. She was going to disinherit Kenny. Raoul had grown used to a certain standard of living, so..." the tall man stated   
"What about the disinfectant? On the cat's claws?"  
"Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came in through the kitchen door. You saw that floor. Scrubbed within an inch of its life. You smell of disinfectant now." John was crestfallen.  
"No, the cat doesn't come into it. Raoul's internet records, do, though. Hope we can get a cab from here." He marches off leaving John behind looking crushed.

Sherlock tossed a hefty file across the desk to Lestrade. It carried a Home Office stamp.  
"Raoul de Santos is your killer. Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't Tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince. It was Botulinim toxin." Sherlock earned a look from John.  
"We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut. Our bomber is repeating himself."  
"How did he do it?" Lestrade asked  
"Botox injection." You stated.  
"Botox?"  
"Botox is a diluted form of Botulinim. Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. Sherlock's Home Office contact got him a complete record of Raoul's internet purchases. He's been ordering Botox in bulk for months. Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose."   
"Are you sure?"  
"One-hundred percent." Sherlock stated  
Lestrade grabbed his phone, dashed out into the corridor.  
"How long?" John asked  
"What?" Sherlock asked  
"How long have you known?"  
"Well, this was quite a simple one, really. Like I said, the bomber's repeated himself. That was a mistake."  
"But the hostage! That old woman on  
the phone. She's been there all this time-" John looked genuinely upset at this revelation.  
"I knew I could save her. I also knew the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly, that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? We're one up on him!"  
Sherlock sat at Lestrade's desk once more and typed on the computer rapidly.  
Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.

You all waited for the pink phone to ring once more. Sherlock's hand snatched it at lightning speed the second it started to ring.  
"Hello?"  
"...help me..." the old woman sobbed.  
"Tell us where you are - address!" Sherlock said sharply.  
"...he was so...his voice...he sounded so..."  
"No! Tell me nothing about him! Nothing!" He snapped.  
"...he sounded so soft..." The sentence sent chills down your spine. You froze as the phone went dead.  
"Hello? Hello?" Sherlock repeated desperately.  
"Sherlock?"   
"What's happened?" John looked like he was about to burst.

You stood in the living room in the Baker Street flat as the TV blared a news report. Stock footage of a devastated building with surrounding disaster teams on the case filled the screen. Alongside the images was the strapline: 12 dead in gas explosion. The three of you watched in grim silence. You wanted to cry in frustration.   
Why? You'd solved the case. Why did she die?!  
"A whole block of flats. Glasgow this time. He gets about." John looked troubled.  
Sherlock grabbed the remote angrily, and turned down the TV.  
"Yes. Well I suppose I lost that round. Though technically I did solve the case so-"  
"What the hell does that matter? People are dying!" You snapped, emotions getting the better of you.  
"He killed the old woman because she was starting to describe him. Not 'them'. Him. Just for once, he's put himself in the firing line."   
"What do you mean?"   
"Well, usually he must stay above it all. He arranges these things but no-one ever has direct contact..."  
"What? Like Connie Prince's murder? He arranged that? People come to him to get their crimes fixed up? Like booking a holiday?" John scoffed.  
"It's novel."  
John pointed to the TV news. Raoul was being bundled out of his house and into a waiting police car. Paparazzi cameras flashed.  
Sherlock's fingers drummed rhythmically on the table next to him.  
"Taking his time, this time."  
You could tell that the cold-bloodedness gets to John- although he was trying to get past it.  
"Anything from the Carl Powers lead?" John asked  
"Nothing. All his living class mates check out. Spotless. No connection."  
"Maybe he was older than Carl." He suggested   
"The thought had occurred."  
"So why is he doing this? Playing this game with you? You think he wants to be caught?"   
"I think he wants to be distracted."  
He cradled the phone his eyes shining. This disturbed John. He looked angry, even. He glanced at the smiley face on the wall.   
"I hope you'll be very happy together." You muttered. John stood up - restless and suddenly wanting to be a long way from Sherlock.  
"I'm sorry, what?" He looked at you like he was hurt, after hearing what you said.   
"There are lives at stake. Actual, human lives. I just want to know, do you care about that at all?" You said.  
"Would caring help save them?"  
"No." Johns muttered  
"Then I'll continue to avoid the mistake."  
"Find that easy, do you?" John snapped  
"Very. Is that news to you?  
"No..." he sighed. "No." His tone hardened  
He walked to the window, staring out. Agitated and not wanting even to look at Sherlock.  
"You're both disappointed in me."  
"Oh, good. Good deduction." You snapped, not looking at him either.  
"Don't make heroes out of people, Watsons." He addressed the both of you.  
"Heroes don't exist. And if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."  
The Bomber's phone beeped. New message. Sherlock was instantly all action.  
"Excellent!" He shouted.  
He placed it on speaker-phone again. Two beeps sounded. Sherlock clicked on another picture. It was a riverside view.   
"That's the Thames. Near St Paul's. Check the papers, John. I'll try online."  
John just glowers at him.  
"Oh. You're angry so you won't help me. Not much cop, this caring lark."   
John's facial expression said damn it, he's right! He approached the pile of newspapers, Sherlock began tapping away at the laptop. You watched as John flicked rapidly through page after page of newsprint.  
"Archway suicide." He said   
"Ten a penny." Sherlock sighed.   
"Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington. Um...that dead bloke found on the railway line. Andrew West-"  
"Nothing!" Sherlock groaned  
He grabbed his phone and speed-dialled.  
"It's me. Anything been found near St Paul's? Or the river?" Sherlock said into his phone. He listened intently, then nodded to John. 

Posters were plastered over buildings by the riverside: 'Hickman Gallery. The Lost Vermeer.'  
You walk behind sherlock and John, along the exposed shore of the Thames. Police tape had cordoned off most of the area.  
Lestrade nodded to you. A body bag lies at his feet.  
"You reckon this is connected then? The bomber?"  
"Must be." Sherlock stated blankly.  
He pulled the pink iPhone from his pocket, like he's checking it for messages.  
"Odd though, he hasn't been in touch."   
"But we must assume some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah?"  
"Yes." You speak for the first time since the argument earlier. Lestrade can almost sense your agitation.   
Sherlock bent down and unzipped the body bag. He looked the body up and down. It was a large, middle-aged man.  
"Any ideas?"  
"Seven so far."  
"Seven?"   
Sherlock's suddenly all over the corpse like a blood-hound, sniffing, pressing the cold skin, unbuttoning clothes, rolling up the body's trouser leg, examining the wristwatch, tapping into his PDA. He examined the face with a lens and his eyes light up.  
At last, he shot a look at John, jerks his head towards the body then concentrates on sending texts.  
John looked to Lestrade for permission. He shrugged.  
"Dead about twenty four hours. Maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?"  
"Apparently not. Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated."  
"Yes. I'd agree. There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth..."  
"Yes. There would be." Sherlock said absently   
John gestured at the corpse's hairline and ears.  
"And there are more bruises...here and here..."  
"Fingertips."  
John shot a look at him. What does he know?  
"He's mid-Fifties, I'd say. Not in the best condition."  
"He's been in the river a while which has destroyed most of the data..." His phone beeps. He smiles.  
Who is he texting!?  
"But I'll tell you one thing. That lost Vermeer painting is a fake!" He nodded to the posters on the walls  
"What?" Lestrade winced.  
"We need to identify the corpse. Find out who his friends and associates are." Sherlock stated  
"Wait, wait! What painting? What're you on about?" Lestrade steadied Sherlock's pace.   
"It's all over the place. Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master. It was supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago and now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds."  
"Ok. So....What's that got to do with the stiff?"  
"Everything." He said excitedly. "Have you ever heard of the Golem?"  
"Golem?" Lestrade asked again.  
"It's a horror story, isn't it? What Are you saying?" John said  
"Jewish folk-story. A gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin. Real name Oskar Dzundza. One of the deadliest assassins in the world." He gestured at the corpse. "That's his trademark style."  
"This was a hit?"   
"Definitely. The Golem squeezes the breath out of his victims with his bare hands."  
"What's this got to do with that painting? I don't see-"  
"You do see. You just don't observe." Sherlock stated.  
"All right, girls. Keep calm. Sherlock? Wanna take us through it?" John intervened   
Sherlock straightened up, enjoying himself.  
"What do we know about this corpse? The killer's not left us with much. Just shirt and trousers. They're pretty formal - maybe he was going out for the night. But the trousers are heavy duty. Polyester. Nasty. Shirt's the same. Cheap. And they're both too big for him - So, some kind of standard issue  
uniform. Dressed for work, then. But what work? There's a loop on his belt. Must be for a walkie-talkie."  
"Tube driver?"   
Sherlock pulls a face that said, not it.  
"Security guard?" John asked  
"More likely. That'd be borne out by his backside."  
"His backside?" Lestrade repeated. He sounded a bit like a broken record.  
"Flabby. You'd think he led a sedentary life - yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs say otherwise. So, a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good."  
John smiled, pleased with himself.  
"And the watch helps. Shows he did regular night  
shifts."  
"Why regular? Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died?"  
"No, no. Buttons are stiff. Hardly touched. He set the alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied. But there's something else. Killer must've been disturbed otherwise he'd have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off.  
Suggests the dead man worked somewhere recognisable. Some kind of institution."  
He holds up a wet ball of paper.  
"From his pocket. Soaked by the river but still recognisably-"  
"Tickets?" John interjected.  
"Ticket stubs. He worked in a museum. Or a gallery. Did a quick check. The Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing. Alex Woodbridge. Last week they unveiled the  
rediscovered masterpiece. Now why would anyone want to pay a killer like the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant?" He looked to you to finish his sentence, but you looked away, still refusing to speak to him. "Inference: the dead man knew something about it. Something that would stop the owner charging thirty million pounds for it. The picture's a fake." He recovered. Sherlock shot you a quizzical look, not understanding why you were ignoring him.  
"Fantastic!" John exclaimed.   
"Meretricious."  
"And a happy new year." He joked. You scowled at him he looked down at the body. "Poor sod."  
"I'd better put out some feelers for this Golem character."   
"Pointless. You'll never find him. But I know a man who can."  
"Who?"  
"Me." Sherlock smiled.  
"John, go get us a cab would you?" John nodded and scurried off. You went to follow him, but Sherlock grabbed your wrist and pulled you into an alleyway.  
"Why are you ignoring me?" He said, his expression almost pained.  
"Oh, Gee! I wonder why." You snapped back.  
"I don't understand, (y/n)!"   
"That's something I've never heard you say." You scoffed, then you went to leave, again you felt his hand on your arm to stop you, this time gentler.   
"(Y/N) is this about me not caring?" These words were hard for him to say.  
"These people's lives are in danger, Sherlock." You said sadly. "If you can't care about people when they're in danger how can you care about anyone?"  
"I care about you!" He almost shouted. You blinked.  
"That's why, as long as you are safe, I don't have to worry. When you were on that train I could barely think straight. I was..." he tried to think of the word.  
"I was worried. I care." Your eyes welled at his words.  
"Don't cry, please." He chuckled gently, pulling you into a hug. His smell filled your nostrils once more. It felt homey and safe. You hugged him back. You heard John shouting for the two of you.   
"We better go." You said, pulling away. You wanted to stay wrapped in his arms forever but it was unreasonable. You dried your eyes and left the alley with Sherlock behind you.   
"Cabs here." John smiled at the two of you. 

"Made up then?" He asked you as you climbed into the cab. You nodded. Sherlock had the pink iPhone in his hand, restlessly turning it over and over.  
"But why hasn't the phone - he's broken his pattern - why?" He turned to the driver. "Waterloo Bridge."  
"Where now? The gallery?"  
"In a bit." He took out a pen and a notebook and hastily scribbled a note.  
"The Hickman's contemporary art, isn't it? Why've they got hold of an Old Master?" John asked  
"Dunno. Dangerous to jump to conclusions. I need data."  
The cab pulls up halfway along the bridge.  
"Can you wait? Won't be a minute." He said to the driver before ducking out. He darts down the stairs towards the river. You both follow closely. A young, trustafarian female beggar is on the steps calling out in a familiar, defeated way.  
"Change? Any change, please?"  
Sherlock approached her.  
"Change? Any change?"  
"What for?"  
"Cup of tea, of course."  
Sherlock beams at her.   
"I've only got a fifty."  
"In that case, a magnum of champagne!"  
Sherlock hands over fifty quid and then ran back up the steps to the cab.  
"What're you doing?"  
"Investing."  
Showing that he cares. You smiled to yourself as you get back into the cab.


	16. The Golem

Glazed brick walls, modern canvases, everything is suffused with its amber light inside the gallery.  
On another wall, surrounded by a plush canopy --  
The lost Vermeer. A small but beautiful painting of the city of Delft by night, under a star-filled sky.  
A uniformed gallery attendant is staring at it. You only see him from behind.  
"Don't you have something to do?" A smartly dressed woman asked the attendant.  
The attendant turned, revealing Sherlock's face. You grinned  
"Just admiring the view."  
"Yes. Lovely. Now get back to work."  
"Doesn't it bother you?"  
"What?"  
"That the painting's a fake? It has to be a fake. It's the only explanation. Are you in charge..."  
He glanced at her name-badge. "...Miss Wenceslas?"  
"Who are you?"  
"Alex Woodbridge knew it was a fake, so someone sent the Golem to take care of him. Was it you?"  
"'Golem'? What the hell are you talking about?"  
"Or are you working for someone else? Did you fake it for them?"  
"It is not a fake!" Wenceslas exclaimed.  
"It is a fake. I don't know why but there's something wrong with it. There has to be."  
Wenceslas looked like she was about to explode.  
"What the hell are you on about? You know I could have you sacked? On the spot?"  
"Not a problem."  
"No?"  
"No. I don't work here, you see. Just popped in to give you some friendly advice."  
"How did you get in? Please."  
You popped to Sherlocks side from the shadows as he began to leave.  
"Very easily." You smirked. She seemed shocked that you were there too.  
"I want to know!" She demanded  
"The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight."  
"Who are you?"  
"Sherlock Holmes."  
"Am I supposed to be impressed?"  
"You should be. Have a nice day."  
The two of you walked away confidently.  
Miss Wenceslas watched you go, then swings back towards the new Vermeer. Staring at it. 

A taxi pulls up outside 221b and John climbed out, just as Sherlock and you emerged from the flat. The same beggar from earlier was siting outside.  
"Spare change. Any spare change?"  
Sherlock went straight up to her.  
"Alex Woodbridge didn't know anything special about paintings." John called over.  
"And?"  
"And?"  
"Is that it? He had no habits, no hobbies, no personality?"   
"Give us a chance. He was an amateur astronomer."  
"Hold that cab."   
"What? Oh. Right." He does so.  
"Spare change, sir?"  
"Don't mind if I do."  
The Beggar hands him what looks like a bank note -  
"Night, night." She said before ambling off into the night. Sherlock unrolls the note - it's a scribbled message. He grins triumphantly. You furrow your brow, completely confused  
"Fortunately, I've not been idle. Come on."   
He gets into the back of the taxi. You and John followed. 

The exterior of a grim section of bridge arches. The cab pulls up and deposits the three of you before driving off. A young boy is spraying tags on the brickwork. He spots you and scurries off into the night. Sherlock looks up at the clear night sky. It's absolutely packed with stars.  
"Beautiful, isn't it?" He smiled at you.   
"I thought you didn't care about things like that." John said, not noticing the look Sherlock was giving you.  
"I can still appreciate them."  
"Listen, Alex Woodbridge's flat was  
broken into. And someone left him a message. A Professor Cairns-"  
"This way." He leads the way into the arches. It was very sinister. Vaguely human shapes under sleeping bags and cardboard boxes. The odd fire.  
"Nice. Nice part of town." John said sarcastically. "Why are we here?"  
"To see a friend."  
"Friend. Right." John looked round. One of the shapes detached himself from the shadows. A whiskery old man. He's surprisingly posh.  
"Good evening!"  
"Lord Huxley! How are you?"  
"Mustn't grumble. Really, I mustn't. The farmers aren't good again, though, it has to be admitted."  
"You shouldn't sit on so many cold steps."  
"Occupational hazard!"   
"This is John and (y/n). My friends."  
"Hello!" He said brightly  
"Hi." You and John greeted him.  
"Well?" Sherlock asked  
"We found him, Sherlock." He said, excitement filling his expression.  
"I never doubted you would."  
"Down there. Last arch but one. Made himself a nice little nest but...keeps himself to himself."  
"Not surprised."  
"I got my lads straight onto it. Hard to miss him. He's there at the minute. Came back about an hour ago in a tearing hurry."  
"Thanks." Sherlock got up to leave.   
"Careful, Sherlock. There's something...unnatural about this one." Huxley warned.  
"So I hear. Thanks. I'll be in touch."  
"Ta, ta. Nice to meet you, (y/n) and John!" He called   
Sherlock moved quietly along the arches with you and John following.  
"Any time you want to explain-" John began.  
"Homeless network. Really is indispensable."   
"Homeless network?"  
"Yeah. My eyes and ears. All over the city."  
"Right. That's clever! So, you scratch their backs-"  
"and then disinfect myself, yes! Lord Huxley's in charge of the operation."   
"Lord Huxley? What's that, like a Pearly King name or something?" John asked.  
"No, no. He's the real thing. Don't you remember? Pile of clothes on a beach about ten years ago? The disappearing peer?"  
"Oh God, yeah." You remembered.   
"He prefers it down here. Better class of gentleman than the House of Lords."   
He pulled up sharply and stopped you both with his hand. Under one of the arches, something stirred. Cardboard and rubbish are pushed away as an immensely tall, thin, crook- backed figure slunk out of the darkness. The Golem. He was still little more than a silhouette as he shuffled away from his hiding place.  
"Come on!"   
You creep after him, trying to stay out of sight. The Golem turned round. Had he spotted you? His face was still hidden by shadow. You all press yourselves against a slimy brick wall. The Golem plodded on.  
"What was he doing sleeping rough?"  
"He has a very distinctive look. Needs to hide somewhere tongues won't wag. Much." Sherlock whispered. John tuts to himself.  
"What?"  
"Wish I'd-"  
Sherlock reached into his coat and handed John his army pistol.  
"Don't mention it." He said as John grinned.  
Out of nowhere, a car pulled up at the entrance to the arches. The Golem scrambled in.  
"No! No! No! No!" Sherlock shouted as the car roared off in a cloud of dust.  
"Could take us a week to find him again!"  
"Or not. I might have an idea where he's going." John said  
"What?" You and Sherlock looked at him.  
"I told you. Someone left Alex Woodbridge a message. Can't be that many Professor Cairns in the book."

Darkness. Then a calm, reassuring voice echoes out.  
"Jupiter! The fifth planet in our solar system. And the largest. Jupiter is a gas giant. Planet Earth would fit into it eleven times..." Jupiter appears, projected onto the ceiling. Bathed in its light is an elderly woman in a track-suit - Professor Cairns. She was operating a control console.  
"Yes. We know all that."  
The recorded voice squealed as she fast-forwarded it. Images of planets and stars blur over her face as she does so.  
"Titan is the largest moon-"  
Fast forwarding again.  
"Come on, Neptune. Where are you hiding?"  
She suddenly stopped and stiffened.  
"Discovered by Urbain le Verrier in 1846-"  
She stopped the tape and peered about. Her face was blue with the image of Neptune.  
"Tom? Is that you?"  
Someone was moving about in the darkness.  
"Hello? Tom?"  
It was not Tom. A huge shadow fell across Professor Cairns' face. She gasped in terror as an immense hand closed over her face, swamping her nose and mouth. She staggered back against the console.  
"A star begins as a collapsing ball of material composed mainly of hydrogen..." the tape began again. The professor clawed at the Golem's hand. The three of you emerged from the shadows. The Golem turned and at last you saw his nightmarish face. A living skeleton. The Golem's milk-white, bald head and deep-set eyes gave him a vampire's look. The skin was shrivelled and as dry as parchment. He grinned, exposing yellow peg-teeth. John raised his gun.  
"It is astonishing to think that many of the stars in the night sky are no longer actually there." The recording continued.   
The Golem let go of Professor Cairns and she slid to the floor. The Golem giggled and darts into the shadows. His laughter echoed through the chilly building. You ran to the professor in hope she was ok. Sherlock looked to you. You shook your head. She was dead.  
"Their light takes so long to reach us that many are actually long dead. Exploded into supernovas..." The voice was getting on your nerves  
"John!" Sherlock shouted.  
John ran to cut off the Golem. There were rows upon rows of seats in the planetarium. The Golem knocked the up as he runs and they bang like pistol shots. In the flickering projected light it's almost impossible to see where the Golem had gone.  
"The Crab Nebula exploded in 1054..."  
Sherlock raced down one aisle. No sign of the Golem. He stopped dead, listening. Suddenly the projection changed and the Golem was right behind Sherlock.  
"Sherlock!" You shouted. He span around and the Golem's enormous hands closed over his face like the petals of a monstrous flower. Sherlock was gasping for breath. He tried to get his hand under the Golem's fingers to pull them away from his flesh but it was no good.  
"It is an example of what we call a pulsar..."   
You frantically looked around the room for Hohn but couldn't see him. You ran at the Golem. Suddenly the Golem sagged as John smashed the back of his gun over the Golem's head. Sherlock dove free, rubbing his face and whooping for air. You check that Sherlocks ok. Stunned, the Golem swung round and jabbed John savagely in the guts. He dropped the gun. Before John could recover, the Golem looms massively over him, his hand closing over John's face. You grabbed the gun and pointed at the Golem's back. The Golem cocked his head and closes his fingers over John's mouth. John starts to panic.  
"Let him go. Or I'll kill you, Dzundza. I will kill you." You snarled with deadly intent. The Golem released John. He scrabbled away towards Sherlock.  
"You all right?"  
"Think so."  
"You'll forgive the hoary cliche, I hope, Mr Dzundza but, who are you working for?" You said, still holding the gun. The Golem smiled horribly then suddenly sprinted towards the Planetarium's control console. You fired, hitting the console. The recorded voice-over squealed madly into life, the projected images do the same. Planets, stars, galaxies flash insanely over the ceiling and their faces.  
"Their light takes so long to reach us that many are actually long dead. Exploded into supernovas...."  
The Golem took advantage of the chaos and dove for the exit. You aimed and fired again, but it's too late. A rectangle of light cut through the projection as the Golem flung open the door and made his escape.  
Sherlock ran to the doorway as you heard the screech of tyres from outside  
"Shit!" You snapped, firing once more at the ceiling in frustration.  
"It's ok." John assured you. 

The three of you had returned to the gallery.  
You and Sherlock stood in front of the lost Vermeer, tapping away wildly on his phone. John and Lestrade hovered close by. Miss Wenceslas stood with them, looking thunderous.  
"This had better be good." She snapped.  
"It's a fake. Has to be." Sherlock muttered to you.   
"That painting has been subjected to every test known to science!" She assured   
"Then it's a very good fake. You know, don't you? This is you, isn't it?"  
"Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing yourself, and your friends, out." She stated sharply before turning to go. Just as she did the iPhone rang. Sherlock grabbed it, answered and put it on speaker.  
It was silent.  
"It's a fake. The painting is a fake, that's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed." Silence once again.  
"Oh come on, proving it is just a detail - I've solved it! I've figured it out. The painting's a fake, that's the answer, that's why he was killed."  
Silence.  
"Ok! I'll prove it's a fake. Just give me time, will you give me time?"  
After a moment more of silence, a voice rang chillingly out across the room - a child's voice from the iPhone.  
"Ten." A chill swept down your spine  
"It's a kid. Oh God, it's a kid." You felt sick.  
"What did he say?" John asked  
"Ten." Sherlock repeated.  
"Nine." The kid spoke again  
"It's a countdown. He's giving me time." Sherlock said bitterly.  
"Jesus!" You pinched the bridge of your nose.  
Sherlock had leapt to the painting, staring at it, devouring it with his eyes.  
"It's a fake, it's a fake, how do I prove it's a fake, how??"  
"Eight."  
Sherlock rounded on Miss Wenceslas.  
"This child will die. Tell me why the painting is a fake, tell me!"   
Miss Wenceslas did not move.  
"Seven."  
"No! Shut up! Say nothing. Only counts if I work it out! Must be possible! Must be staring me in the face!"  
"Six."  
"How? Alex woodbridge knew. But how? How??"  
"Five." The child was audibly sobbing now.  
"He's speeding up." You said, feeling your stomach sink.  
"Sherlock!" John shouted.  
"Four."  
And suddenly Sherlock came to a dead halt, staring at the painting. He was finally getting it.  
"Oh! In the planetarium! You heard what it said! Oh, that's brilliant. That's gorgeous!"  
He tossed the iPhone to you and then got his PDA out, tapping away frantically.  
"Three."  
"What's brilliant? What is?" John snapped.  
But Sherlock was tapping away, in his own world.  
"Two."  
"Oh, this is beautiful. I love this!"  
"Sherlock!" You warned  
"One." Sherlock snatched the phone from your hand.  
"The Van Buren supernova."  
Silence. Then, the child was crying loudly.  
"Help me! Are you there? Help me. Please!"  
You breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Sherlock tossed the iPhone to Lestrade.  
"There you go. Find out where he is, go and pick him up."  
He held out his PDA like a badge of honour, showing it to you, John and Miss Wenceslas. A black and white photo of a large, blobby white star was on the screen.  
"The Van Buren supernova, it's  
called. A huge star blowing up. Only appeared in the sky in 1858!"  
He held the phone next to the Vermeer. The same configuration of stars has been painted in the sky over Delft. Including the blobby white Van Buren supernova.  
"So how could it have been painted in the 1640s?" You smirked. "Clever boy." You praised. John gave you a funny look as you said it. His phone beeps. He checked it, suddenly looking worried. 

"You know, it's interesting. Bohemian stationery. An assassin named after a Prague legend and you...Miss Wenceslas. There's a distinctly Czech feel to the whole case. Is that where all this leads?" Sherlock stated to Wenceslas. Sherlock and Lestrade sat across the table in the interview room. You stood by the door. No response.  
"What are we looking at, Inspector?"  
"Criminal conspiracy. Fraud. Accessory after the fact, at the very least. The murder of the old woman. All those people in the flats-"  
"I didn't know anything about that! All those things...Please. Believe me. I just wanted my share. The thirty million..." she sighed, completely defeated.  
"I found a little old man in Argentina. Genius. I mean really. Brushwork immaculate. Could fool anyone. Well, nearly anyone. But I didn't know how to go about convincing the world the picture was genuine. It was just an idea. A spark which he blew into a flame."  
"Who?" You asked.   
"I don't know."  
You scoffed.  
"It's true! It took me a long time but eventually I was put in touch with...people. His people. But there was never any real contact. Just messages. Whispers."  
"And did these whispers have a name?" Sherlock asked.  
"Moriarty."   
Hearing this name again made you feel sick to your stomach. You flung the interview door open and ran to the closest bathroom. You locked the stall door and retched over the toilet bowl. Tears streamed down your face as you vomited. You flushed the toilet and then sat against the door as you collected yourself again. You exited the stall and splashed some water on your face after washing your hands. You reached into your pocket and took out some chewing gum before placing it into your mouth.   
When you left the bathroom, Sherlock was stood outside. He didn't say anything, he just wrapped his arms around you tightly.  
"He won't lay a finger on you again, (y/n). I won't let him." You hugged him back. 

After you had calmed down, Sherlock decided that you'd pay John a visit. You arrived at the train platform and heard Johns voice clearly.  
"Speaking of strawberry jam. There's  
no blood on the line. Has it been cleaned off?"  
"No. There wasn't much." A guard replied  
"You said his head was smashed in?"  
"It was. But there wasn't much blood.  
"Ok."  
"I'll leave you to it, then. Give us a shout when you're off."  
He wandered away up the tunnel, missing you and Sherlock lurking in the shadows. John looked about.  
"Right. Andrew West must've got on the tube somewhere. But he didn't have a ticket. So how did he end up here? Come on, come on, come on."  
He chewed his lip and sighed. No good. He wandered back up the tunnel, began to mount the slope that will take him back onto the platform. Then, suddenly, he turned back and gazes at the railway. He frowned but then something occurred to him to make him grin hugely.  
"The points!" Sherlock exclaimed  
"Yes!" He whirled round. The voice wasn't in his head. Sherlock and you stood above him on the platform, smiling down at him.  
"I knew you'd get there. West wasn't killed here. That's why there was so little blood." Sherlock was grinning.  
"How long have you been following me?" John chuckled  
"From the start. You don't think I'd give up a case like this one just to spite my brother, do you? Come on. We need to do a bit of burglary." This made your face light up. This'll be fun. You thought to yourself.


	17. The Great Game

The three of you strode along a busy street. The sun was hidden by the clouds that polluted the sky.  
"We know the missile defence plans  
haven't left the country. Mycroft's people would have heard by now." Sherlock smiled. "Despite what people think this country does still have a secret service."  
"I know that. I've seen 'Spooks'." John started. You smiled at his remark.  
"Which means that whoever stole that memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what do with it. My money's on the latter." He glanced up at the house in front of you. "We're here."  
"Where?" John asked. There was an alley at the side of the house. Sherlock disappeared down it.

You followed him down, and then you arrived at a flat. He forced open the frosted door. Inside was messy, belonging to a young man you assumed.  
"What if there's someone in?" John asked skittishly  
"There isn't." Sherlock assured him. Sherlock popped his head inside and then crept inside, gesturing for the two of you to follow. The wall of the main room was dominated by its windows. Almost at once, a rumbling roar came from below your feet. Sherlock crossed to the windows and threw them open revealing a view of railway lines beneath.  
"Where are we?" John asked  
"Sorry, didn't I say? This is Joe Harrison's flat."  
"Joe...?" John asked, not knowing what sherlock was on about.  
"The brother of West's fiancee. He stole the memory stick. And killed his prospective brother-in-law."  
Sherlock pressed his face close to the woodwork of the windows. There were scuff marks and smears of blood.  
"Why did he do it?"  
The sound of a key in the front door startled you and John.  
"Let's ask him."  
John froze on the spot. Joe came into the front room, wheeling his bike. He jumped at the sight of three strangers in his living room. A strange look crossed his face. He knew you were onto him. He lifted up the bike, prepares to hurl it at you. John cocked his army pistol which deterred him instantly. 

A miserable Joe slumped onto his sofa.  
"It wasn't meant to...oh God. This is such a bloody mess. What's Lucy gonna say? Jesus."  
"Why did you kill him?" You asked  
"It was an accident."  
Sherlock scoffed.  
Joe sighed. "I swear it was."  
"But stealing the plans for the missile defence program, that wasn't an accident. Was it?"  
"I started pushing. Drugs, I mean. The bike thing is great cover. But...I dunno. I dunno how it started but I got out of my depth. I owed people thousands. Serious people. I didn't know what to do. Then, at Westie's engagement do he started talking about his job. He was usually so careful. But, you  
know, after a few pints he opened up a bit. Told me about these missile plans. Beyond top secret. Showed me the memory stick. I mean, you hear about these things getting lost. Turning up on rubbish dumps and stuff but there it was! And I thought..." Joe ran his hands over his face in remorse.  
"Well, I knew it'd be worth a fortune. It was pretty easy to get the thing off him. He was so plastered. Next time I saw him, I could see by the look on his face that he knew. Knew it was me that'd taken it."  
"What happened? The night he died?" You asked.  
"I knew he was dead soon as I saw  
him. Didn't have a clue what to do so I dragged him in here. I was just sitting in the dark, thinking and thinking..."  
"When a neat little idea popped into your head..." Sherlock finished.  
"Carrying Andrew West a long way away from here. The body would have gone on for ages if the train hadn't hit a stretch of line with curves-"  
"And points." John added.  
"Exactly." Sherlock smiled at your brother.  
"You've still got it, then? The memory stick?" John asked  
"Yeah."  
"Fetch it for me, if you wouldn't mind." Sherlock commanded. Joe slunk away to get it and returned it to Sherlock.  
"Distraction over. Back to the game." Sherlock grinned.  
"Maybe that's over too. There's been nothing from the bomber." John suggested. You shook your head in response.  
"Five pips, John. Remember? And we've only had four." 

Back at Baker Street Close the tv was blaring once again. John had his laptop on his knee, you were reading a book and Sherlock was watching a Jeremy Kyle-like TV show.  
"Of course he's not the kid's dad! Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!" Sherlock shouted at the TV.  
"I knew it was dangerous." You chuckled.  
"Hm?" Sherlock responded  
"Getting you into trashy TV." You flicked to the next page in your book.  
"Not a patch on Connie Prince."  
"You given Mycroft the memory stick yet?" John asked him.  
"Yup. He was over the moon. Threatened me with a Knighthood. Again."  
"Still waiting."  
"For what?" Sherlock asked your brother.  
"For you to admit that a little knowledge about the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker."  
"Didn't do you any good, did it?"  
"Well, I'm not the world's only consulting detective."  
"True." John said as he got up, grabbing his coat.  
"I won't be in for tea. I'm going to Sarah's. There's some of that risotto left in the fridge. Oh and milk. We need milk."  
"I'll get some." Sherlock said. You blinked at him in shock.  
"Really?" John smiled slightly  
"Really."  
"And some beans. We need beans." Sherlock nodded. John headed out.  
Sherlock waited a moment then rushed to the laptop. Quickly calling up his own website. He tapped manically at the keyboard.  
"Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect."  
Sherlock hesitated.  
"The pool. Midnight."

"What are you doing?" You approaches from behind, looking over his shoulder.  
"Nothing." He said plainly.  
"You didn't give Mycroft the memory stick, did you?"  
"Hm?" He said like he hadn't heard the question. He wasn't going to answer, but you didn't need him to. You knew.  
"So who are we giving them to?"  
"We? Nobody. I am going alone."  
"No you're not. You're forgetting that us Watsons have saved your life on numerous occasions." You stated, as you draped your arms over his shoulders. He was sat down, so your head was just above his. You gently placed your chin on the top of his head. He didn't move, just continued tapping on the computer.  
"I'm coming with you."  
"I told you, I can't let him lay another finger on you."  
"So it is him. Moriarty." You stated.  
"Yep."  
"Well, he won't be able to lay a finger on me if we're there for each other." You smile slightly.  
In reality his name even shook you to the core. You had to be strong. You couldn't let Sherlock see that you were terrified or he would go alone and potentially get himself killed. You kissed the top of his curls gently. He turned to face you, still in his seat, then pulled one of your arms so you came tumbling down onto his lap. You looked up at him, and then he kissed you while cradling you in his arms. You shifted positions so you were on top of him, straddling him. You kissed him passionately and he returned your actions. You hadn't heard the door open.  
"Oh dear god!" Mrs Hudson laughed. You practically jumped off of Sherlock in fright.  
"Mrs Hudson don't you knock!?" Sherlock snapped irritably.  
"Sorry, I didn't know I was interrupting anything." She grinned at you. "I knew something was up with the two of you!" She clapped joyously as you blushed brightly.  
"Don't let her go, Sherlock. She's a good one. You seem happiest with her around." Sherlock stood up and began to push her out the apartment.  
"Out!" He ordered.  
"Mrs Hudson? Please don't tell John." You smiled weakly.  
"He's protective of you, but I'm sure he'll understand. I won't tell him though, that's upto you to do." She smiled as Sherlock finally ushered her out of the room. He sighed as he shut the door. You walked over to him and kissed his cheek.  
"We should get ready." You smiled at him, your face still inches away from his. He turned his head and pressed his lips against yours once more. Softer, this time. He pulled away with a slight smile. He nodded.

You arrived at theslightly crumbling municipal baths. You and Sherlock walked through a shadowy corridor. Sherlock took the memory stick from his pocket. A chill reverberated around your body as you entered the main pool room, knowing full well what you were walking into, although with Sherlock by your side, you felt distant from the situation. A railed-gallery looked down onto the long, competitive swimming pool. It was ringed by old fashioned changing rooms. The lights were extremely dim. The water threw jagged shapes over the walls. Somewhere on the other side of the room, a door opens. Quiet footsteps echoed through the room. Your gaze darted around the huge, shadowy pool. You couldn't see any sign of life, just the soft slap of the water, then silence.  
"Maybe I should have worn a red carnation. But then, you know what I look like don't you? It's me who's at a disadvantage."  
Silence. He held up the memory stick.  
"Little getting-to-know-you present. It's what the whole thing's been for, isn't it? All your little puzzles. Making us dance. All meant to distract me from this."  
Distantly, another door opened and then slammed shut. Sherlock whirled round. His expression was set, determined. Footsteps on the tiled floor echoed once again, more distinct this time. You peered ahead. Slowly a bulky figure resolves from the darkness. Then a familiar voice called.  
"'Evening."  
What? John??  
"This is a turn up, isn't it?" John's voice was strangely stilted, halting.  
"John? What the hell are you-?" You could see Sherlock's brain racing.  
"Bet you never saw this coming."  
You could see that sherlock was thinking that John was Moriarty, but then, how? It was impossible.  
John came closer. His face ashen, and wearing a big, bulky overcoat.  
"No..." you gasped. You saw a tiny, red laser light dancing over John's bulky coat. Under the coat you could see the faint outline of explosives. In his right ear was an earpiece, feeding him what to say. He looked extremely scared. Your hand shook.  
Not my brother. Your blood boiled with anger.  
"What would you like me to make him say next?"  
John said as a bead of sweat trickled down his face.  
"Gottle of geer. Gottle of geer. Gottle-" John repeated.  
"Stop it!" You roared.  
"Nice touch this. The pool where little Carl died."  
The laser point ranged over John's chest. He swallowed, terrified.  
"I stopped him laughing. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."  
The laser settled above John's heart.  
"No!" You shouted, ready to run at John. Sherlock put an arm out to stop you.  
"Who are you?" He was trying his best to sound calm but you could hear his voice tremble minutely. A new voice echoed through room.  
"I gave you my number. Thought you might call."  
And suddenly, stepping from the shadows - the slight, elfin figure of Jim. Then it hit you. You did know him. The man who stopped you at the train station. The reason for everything that happened on the train. You wanted to kill him on the spot. You knew you'd feel no remorse.  
"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket - or are you just pleased to see me?"  
Sherlock pulled John's pistol from his coat, training it on Jim.  
"Both."  
"At least one of you are." He smiled at you. "Jim Moriarty. Hi." He holds out his hand, smiling warmly. Neither of you responded. Jim looked disappointed.  
"Jim. From the train station." He smiled at you.  
"I know who you are." You growled.  
"I met you at the hospital though." He pulled a mock 'sad' expression.  
"Really, did I make such a fleeting impression? But then, that was rather the point." Your gaze flicked over to John. The laser light was still trained on him.  
"Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty." Jim's head moved slightly from side to side, like a lizard's.  
"I've given you a glimpse. Just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like both of you."

"Dear Jim, please could you fix it for me to dispose of my boyfriend's nasty sister...?" Sherlock said  
Jim grinned.  
"Dear Jim, please could you fix it for me to disappear to South America...?" You frowned.  
"Just so."  
"A consulting criminal." You said grimly.  
"Brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed  
"Isn't it? No-one ever gets to me. And no-one ever will." He said icily.  
"We did."  
"You've come the closest. But now you're in my way."  
"Thank you." You smirked.  
"Didn't mean it as a compliment."  
"Yes, you did."  
"Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over. Daddy's had enough now. I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. Did you like the Czech Republic thing? That's what you might call a leitmotif. Had you going there, didn't I? But take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off."  
Sherlock smiled thinly.  
"You know, I've loved this. This game of ours. It's been a treat." He winked at you, then prodded at his eye and removed a contact lens. His brown eye, now blue.  
"Playing Jim from IT. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch? With the underwear?"  
"People have died." You stated  
"That's what people do!" Jim drawled.  
"We will stop you." Sherlock said sharply.  
"No. You won't."  
Sherlock looked over at John.  
"You ok?" John didn't move. Frozen with fear.  
"You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead." Jim said.  
You could tell that John was hating the powerlessness. Then he released a small, tight nod.  
The laser light still hovered over the explosives. Sherlock looked at his friend and then to you, then thrusts out the memory stick.  
"Take it!"  
"What? Oh. That. Missile plans? Boring. Could've picked them up any time."  
Jim took the memory stick from Sherlock and tossed it in the pool. Sherlock moved forward instinctively to grab it. John seized the distraction, rushing forward and throwing his arms around Jim. Now they're both a bomb.  
You're brilliant, John. You thought to yourself.  
"Oh, very good. Very good." Jim grinned.  
The laser light bobbed confusedly over John's body.  
"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr Moriarty, we both go up." Your brother hissed bravely. Jim's head oscillated again. He didn't resist John's embrace. He was eerily calm.  
"Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets." That statement made your blood boil again.  
"So touchingly loyal. But - oops - you've rather shown your hand, there, Dr Watson."  
He nods towards the gallery. The laser lights moves off John and settles on Sherlock's temple.  
"Gotcha."  
A new stand-off. Sherlock with the pistol trained on Jim. The explosives-festooned John with his arms wrapped around Jim. The sniper's rifle threatening Sherlock. You slowly reached into your pocket and retrieved your own gun, virtually undetected by anyone else. John looked defeated. Slowly, he lets Jim go and steps aside. The laser light moved back onto John's body.  
Jim straightened his suit.  
"Tsk. Prada." He beamed at Sherlock and you.  
"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock. To you? To her?" He gestured to you.  
"Oh, let me guess. I'll be killed."  
"Killed, nah, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway, some day - don't want to rush it, though, saving it up for something special. No, if you don't stop prying, I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you."  
"I am reliably informed I don't have one."  
"But we both know that's not quite true." Jim looked at you again, smiling.  
"Well, I'd better be off. So nice to have a proper chat."  
"What if I were to shoot you now? Right now?"  
"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. Because I would be surprised, Sherlock. Really I would. And just a teensy bit disappointed. 'Course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long."  
He gave a cheerful wave.  
"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes. Ciao, (Y/N)." He smiled once more before melting away into the shadows.  
"Catch you...later." Sherlock said.  
Jim called without turning. "No. You won't."  
He left. The door banged behind him. You staresd at John with tears brimming your vision. John stared back. Then the red laser winks out. You ran straight to him.  
"You alright?" You said quickly, pure anxiety running through your voice. You ripped off the overcoat, tearing the explosive from around him.  
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine!" You manically stripped the explosives and hurled them away.  
"(Y/N)!" Your brother shouted, snapping you out of it.  
"It's OK. I'm OK." He assured you. Sherlock raced off, throwing open the door to reveal a very empty corridor. Jim was long gone. John sunk to the tiled floor, exhausted.  
"Jesus." He sighed.  
He glanced up at you.  
"You alright?" He asked with a weak smile.  
"Me? Fine. I'm fine." You said  
Sherlock glanced at John, a bit uncomfortably.  
"That was...what you did...what you offered to do. That was..." He struggled to get the next word out.  
"...good."  
John shrugged. John gazed down at his ragged clothes.  
"Glad no-one saw that."  
"Hm?"  
"You ripping all my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. Bit weird out of context." John sighed.  
"They do little else." Sherlock have a small sigh. You all looked at each other with small smiles. Then suddenly. Another laser light winked into life on John. Then one on Sherlock. Then one on you. Then another and another and another until all of you are covered in tiny, bobbing red lights.  
"Sorry, boys. I am so changeable. It's a weakness with me. But, to be fair, it's my only weakness." Jim called. Jim stood upstairs in the gallery, half-glimpsed.  
"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't.  
I would try to convince you but...everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."  
Sherlock looked over at John, you look at them both. John nodded. Then Sherlock aims his gun at the massive pile of Semtex he's just taken off John.  
"Then possibly my answer has crossed yours."  
Countless laser sights hovered over the Baker Street trio. A soldier, alert to every move. A woman, with a completely brilliant mind. And a detective, totally focussed, hand steady as a rock. He cocked the gun.

Sherlock aimed the pistol down at the bomb jacket. As him and Jim Moriarty stare at each other, the introduction to The Bee Gees’ song “Stayin’ Alive” began to play tinnily. The three of you looked around, confused. Jim briefly closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation.   
“D’you mind if I get that?”  
“No, no, please. You’ve got the rest of your life.” Sherlock stated nonchalantly.  
Jim took his phone from his pocket and answered it.  
“Hello? ... Yes, of course it is. What do you want?”  
He mouths ‘Sorry’ at you, and Sherlock sarcastically mouthed ‘Oh, it’s fine’ back at him. Jim rolled his eyes as he listens to the phone, turning away from your trio for a moment, then he span back around, his face full of fury.  
“SAY THAT AGAIN!” He exclaimed angrily into the phone. Sherlock frowned.  
“Say that again, and know that if you’re lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you.” Moriarty said venomously.  
Sherlock looked to you. You shrugged back.  
“Wait.” The villainous man lowered the phone, he began to walk forward. Sherlock looked at the bomb jacket fretfully and adjusted the grip on his pistol as Jim approached. Jim stopped at the jacket and gazed down at the ground thoughtfully before lifting his eyes to Sherlock and you.  
“Sorry. Wrong day to die.”  
“Oh. Did you get a better offer?” You said casually. Jim looked down at the phone, then turned and slowly starts to walk away.   
“You’ll be hearing from me.” He strolled back around the pool towards the door through which he originally came, and he lifted the phone to his ear again.  
“So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don’t, I’ll make you into shoes.”  
Reaching the door, he raised his free hand and clicked his fingers. Instantly all the lasers focused on the three of you disappear. Jim walked through the door and vanished from sight. Sherlock looked around the pool but could see no sign of the retreating snipers. John sighed out a relieved breath.  
“What happened there?” He asked  
“Someone changed his mind. The question is: who?”


	18. The Heart Of Britan

John sat at the table in the living room updating his blog on his laptop. Sherlock, wearing a red dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, is standing at the other side of the table drinking from a mug while leafing through a newspaper. You walked into the room. You hated to admit it, but Sherlock looked good. You shook the thought from your head when you saw John rapidly typing.   
"What are you typing?" You asked  
"Blog." He replied, not looking up. You smiled   
The doorbell rang.   
"Right then." He walked towards the door. "So, what have we got?"  
Over the period of the last few weeks, since the incident at the pool, floods of people had been coming to Baker Street for consults with you and Sherlock. But Sherlock barely ever gave them the time of day before dismissing them with a simple   
“Boring.” Or a simple, rude: “Leave.”

Later that day, you paid a visit to the morgue at Bart’s. Sherlock was using his magnifier to look at a woman’s body lying on the table. John and you stood at the other side of the table with Detective Inspector Lestrade is nearby.   
“Do people actually read your blog?” Sherlock asked.  
“Where d’you think our clients come from?”  
“I have a website.”  
“In which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash. Nobody’s reading your website.” You stated.  
Sherlock straightened up and glares at you, then pouts adorably momentarily as you and John began to look at the body. You winked at him subtly and his expression changed- softening slightly.  
“Right then: dyed blonde hair; no obvious cause of death except for these speckles, whatever they are.” Your brother points at the tiny red marks on the woman’s body but Sherlock had already turned and flounced out of the room. You sighed, then you both followed.

Later, back at the flat, John sat updating his blog again. Sherlock walked past eating a piece of toast. He stopped and looks at the title for the entry.   
“Oh, for God’s sakes!” He said with his mouth full. “What?”   
“‘The Speckled Blonde’?!”   
John pursed his lips in a small smile as Sherlock walked away again. You chuckled slightly at his annoyance. 

Lestrade led you, Sherlock and John across some open ground.  
“There was a plane crash in Dusseldorf yesterday. Everyone dead.”  
“Suspected terrorist bomb. We do watch the news.” Sherlock stated.   
“You said, “Boring,” and changed over.” You scoffed  
Lestrade led you to a car which had its boot opened. There was a body inside the boot. As Lestrade continued to speak, you and Sherlock looked all around the rear of the car.  
Lestrade was looking at a bag of evidence  
“Well, according to the flight details, this man was checked in on board. Inside his coat he’s got a stub from his boarding pass, napkins from the flight, even one of those special biscuits. Here’s his passport stamped in Berlin Airport. So this man should have died in a plane crash in Germany yesterday but instead he’s in a car boot in Southwark.”  
“Lucky escape.” Hohn scoffed.  
“Any ideas?”  
Sherlock examined the man’s hand with his magnifier  
“Eight, so far.” He straightened up and looked at the body again, then frowned momentarily. “Okay, four ideas.” He corrected himself.  
He turned to Lestrade and looked down at the passport and the ticket stub of the passenger, John Coniston, who was meant to be travelling on Flyaway Airways. Standing up, he gazed into the sky.  
“Maybe two ideas.”

Back at the flat, Sherlock – wearing heavy protective gloves and safety glasses and carrying a blowtorch in one hand and a glass container of green liquid in the other – has come to the living room table to look at John’s latest blog entry which is entitled “Sherlock Holmes baffled”.   
“No, no, no, don’t mention the unsolved ones.” Sherlock protested indignantly   
“People want to know you’re human.”  
“Why?” He frowned  
“‘Cause they’re interested.”  
“No they’re not. Why are they?”   
John smiled at his laptop. “Look at that.”  
He pointed to the hit counter on the front page of his blog. “One thousand, eight hundred and ninety-five.” “Sorry, what?” Sherlock looked baffled.  
“I re-set that counter last night. This blog has had nearly two thousand hits in the last eight hours. This is your living, Sherlock – not two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash.” John smiled.  
“Two hundred and forty-three.” He corrected John sulkily.   
Firing up the blowtorch, he puts his safety glasses back on and heads back towards the kitchen. You followed him and watched him from the corner of the kitchen. He was taking out his frustration on burning his experiment. John was still rapidly typing on his laptop. You closed the door which gained Sherlock’s attention. He placed down the blowtorch and took off his goggles which left a red ring around his eyes. You laughed softly as you walked to his side and pecked his cheek.   
“Are you sulking about your website?”   
“No.” He said, clearly lying.  
“I can cheer you up.” You sat on the edge of the table and beckoned him closer. He leant down and the two of you locked lips. You ran your fingers through his curly locks. You smirked into the kiss as you both struggled for dominance over the other. He placed a hand flat on the table behind your back, which gave him more leverage to lean into the kiss.   
You heard John begin to move from his seat in the living room. Sherlock quickly withdrew and went back to the counter. You sat upright, as John opened the door. He smiled at you, and then made a cup of tea. He didn’t notice the red flush to your cheeks, or the wetness of your lips, or your slight breathlessness. For once you were glad your brother didn’t share your ability. John left the kitchen, mug and a few biscuits in hand. You and Sherlock looked at each other, sharing a knowing smirk. You hopped off the kitchen table and went back into the living room.

You walked across the stage of a theatre while police officers milled around nearby.   
“So, what’s this one? ‘Belly Button Murders’?” Sherlock remarked.  
“‘The Navel Treatment’?”   
“Eurgh!” You chortled are the disgustingly bad pun.  
You walked backstage and meet up with Lestrade as they head for the exit.  
“There’s a lot of press outside, guys.”  
“Well, they won’t be interested in us.” Sherlock stated.  
“Yeah, that was before you were an internet phenomenon. A couple of them specifically wanted photographs of you three.”   
“For God’s sake!” Sherlock looked exasperated as he glared at John. John quirked a smile as you walked on, then Sherlock spotted some costumes on a rack just inside a nearby dressing room. He walked in and grabs a couple of items off the rack. “John.” He tossed a cap at him and then some obnoxiously large sunglasses at you.   
“Cover your face and walk fast.” He instructed.  
“Still, it’s good for the public image, a big case like this.” Lestrade said.  
“I’m a private detective. The last thing I need is a public image.” Sherlock said as he fixed a deerstalker hat over his curls. You frowned. You hated to see him covering his pretty curls. You head out the exit door and he pulled the hat as low as possible over his eyes and tugging the collar of his coat up. You placed the glasses over your eyes. Outside, photographers started taking pictures of the trio. 

Later, some of the pictures have been used in various newspapers, together with headlines such as “Hat-man and Robins: The web detectives”, “Sherlock Net ‘Tec”, “Baker Street’s triple threat.” and “Sherlock Holmes: net phenomenon”  
Even a trashy tabloid had took a photo of you and Sherlock and made it look like the two of you were together. John didn’t like that at all.  
“They don’t understand boundaries, do they?” He snapped, as he saw the photo that he had been purposely cropped out of.   
“To think that anyone could think that Sherlock Holmes would get a girlfriend.” John chuckled. You and Sherlock caught each others gaze with a small smirk.  
He didn’t know the half of it.

Mrs Hudson picked up a mug and an almost empty bottle of milk from the mantelpiece and walked into the kitchen, tutting in exasperation at the mess in there. Putting the mug onto the table she took the milk across to the fridge door and opens it, recoiling from the smell emanating from inside. Putting the milk into the fridge door she picked up the offending smelly item and dropped it into the bin, then pulled open the salad crisper at the bottom and takes out a clear plastic bag from it. Peering at the contents, she cringes as she realises what’s inside.  
“Ooh dear! Thumbs!” She dropped the bag back into the salad crisper, then turned as an overweight man stumbled into the kitchen through the side door and stares at her wide-eyed and confused.   
“The door was ... the door was...” He breathed heavily, then dropped to the floor in a faint. Mrs Hudson stared at him in terror for a moment, then called out to the three of you who were all sat in the living room.  
“You’ve got another one!” She bent down to the unconscious man.

After the man – whose name you discovered was Phil – had regained consciousness, you sat him on one of the dining table chairs in the middle of the lounge. He stared blankly at the air front of him. John was sitting on the sofa behind him because you had stolen his seat and Sherlock was pacing behind you.   
“Tell us from the start. Don’t be boring.” He commanded sternly.

Phil told you the story of fourteen hours earlier. Somewhere out in the country his car had broken down. He tried to start the engine for apparently the umpteenth time but it just whined and refuses to start. Phil slammed his hands angrily onto the steering wheel and got out again to stare uselessly down under the open bonnet and tweak a few connections hopefully. He looked around but there was no sign of any other traffic on the country lane. He looked into the field at the side of the road. The field stretched down to a river some distance away and a man wearing a red jacket is standing at the edge of a stream which led down to the river. He had his back to the road. Phil peered at him for a moment but he was too far away to have even noticed what’s happening on the road and eventually Phil got back into the car again and tried once more to start the engine. It whined ferociously and then loudly backfired. Phil sighed, then looked across towards the river and realised that the man was lying on the ground. He got out of the car and stared.   
“Hey! Are you okay?” The man didn’t respond or react. Phil recalled that he then started to walk towards him. “Excuse me! Are you all right?”   
“When I got to him, he had fallen onto his back. There was a lot of blood underneath the back of his head.” Phil told you.  
“Interesting.” Sherlock remarked with a smirk. 

You had just woken up. You padded through to the living room, yawning loudly. Sherlock was sat in the couch on his laptop, wearing nothing but a bedsheet tactically wrapped around himself. You blushed.  
“Where’s John?” You asked.  
“Hi (y/n)!” John’s voice called from the laptop.  
You plopped yourself next to Sherlock on the couch.   
“Hi!” You smiled at your brother. He was out by the bank of a river. It was surrounded by crime scene tape.   
“You realise this is a tiny bit humiliating?” John commented at Sherlocks lack of clothing. Sherlock yawned as he picked up a mug of tea from the side table.  
“It’s okay, I’m fine. Now, show me to the stream.”  
“I didn’t really mean for you.” John sighed   
“Look, this is a six.”  
The doorbell rang, but Sherlock ignored it as he adjusted the screen so that his face could be seen by the laptop’s camera.  
“There’s no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed. Now, go back. Show me the grass.” Sherlock ordered.  
You stood up from the couch and stretched your arms up to the ceiling, revealing some stomach as you did so. Sherlock glanced over to you momentarily with a small smirk. You returned to your normal stance and pulled down your shorts slightly so the waistband sat more comfortably on your waist. 

“When did we agree that?” John questioned. Sherlock turned his attention back to the computer.  
“We agreed it yesterday. Stop!” He leant closer to the screen and looked at the mud on the ground. “Closer.” Instead of following his instructions, John swung the laptop around so that he could look into the camera.  
“I wasn’t even at home yesterday. I was in Dublin.” He sounded offended.  
“Well, it’s hardly my fault you weren’t listening.” You chuckled again him. The doorbell rung once more insistently. Sherlock briefly looked in the direction of the stairs. “SHUT UP!” He shouted angrily.   
“D’you just carry on talking when we’re away?” You asked   
“I don’t know. How often are you away?” He replied. He turned back to the laptop. “Now, show me the car that backfired.” Sighing, John stood up and turned the laptop and its camera towards the road to show Phil’s car.  
“That’s the one that made the noise, yes?”  
John swung the camera back around to look into it  
“Yeah. And if you’re thinking gunshot, there wasn’t one. He wasn’t shot; he was killed by a single blow to the back of the head from a blunt instrument which then magically disappeared along with the killer. That’s gotta be an eight at least.” John stated.  
Sherlock leant back in his chair and ran his finger back and forth over his top lip as he thought. You found yourself wishing that you were the one touching his lips. You slapped yourself out of it as you plonked yourself by Sherlock’s side again. As John walked back towards the road an agent, unknown to you, followed along behind him.  
“You’ve got two more minutes, then I want to know more about the driver.” The agent said sharply. Sherlock waved his hand dismissively at the camera. “Oh, forget him. He’s an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?”  
The agent looked over at the laptop camera.  
“I think he’s a suspect!”   
Sherlock lent forward angrily.   
“Pass me over.” He demanded.  
“All right, but there’s a Mute button and I will use it.” John warned. He tilted the laptop at an angle that Sherlock’s wasn’t happy with.  
“Up a bit! I’m not talking from down here!” Sherlock said irritably. John had had enough and offered the laptop to the stranger.   
“Okay, just take it, take it.” The man took the laptop as Sherlock started talking at double the usual speed.  
“Having driven to an isolated location and successfully committed a crime without a single witness, why would he then call the police and consult a detective? Fair play?” He snapped  
“He’s trying to be clever. It’s over-confidence.” The agent stated.  
“Did you see him? Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet p0rn addict and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy – and you think he’s an audacious criminal mastermind?!” Sherlock sighed in exasperation, then turned around to John’s chair where Phil sat.  
“Don’t worry – this is just stupid.”   
“What did you say? Heart what?” PHIL said anxiously. Ignoring him, Sherlock turned back to the camera.   
“Go to the stream.”  
“What’s in the stream?”  
“Go and see.” Sherlock commanded. As the agent handed the laptop back to John, Mrs Hudson came up the stairs and into the living room followed by two men wearing suits.  
“Sherlock! You weren’t answering your doorbell!” She reprimanded.  
One of the men, looks at his colleague while pointing with his thumb in the direction of the kitchen.   
“His room’s through the back. Get him some clothes.” You raised a brow at these strange men.   
“Who the hell are you?” Sherlock demanded   
“Sorry, Mr. Holmes. You’re coming with us. You too Miss Watson.” He reached forward to close down the lid of the laptop as John called out in alarm. “Sherlock, what’s going on? What’s happening?” The man closed it, cutting your brother off.   
“Well that’s rude.” You said at the stranger.   
The second stranger had collected a pile of clothes and a pair of shoes and put them down onto the table in front of Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged disinterestedly.

“Please, Mr. Holmes. Where you’re going, you’ll want to be dressed.”   
Sherlock turned his head, and gazed at the man and begins to deduce the hell out of him. You do the same.  
Looking at his clothes you guessed his suit alone would’ve cost £700. Glancing at his breast pocket and the area where a pistol would be if he was carrying one. Unarmed. Thumbnail- Manicured. His forehead showed he was an office worker. The way his hands were folded in front of him showed he was right handed. Looking down to his shoes: Indoor worker. Seeing some wiry hairs on the cuff of his trouser leg you could tell he was around a small dog often. Then you saw a mark higher up the same trouser leg- Two small dogs. You followed the trace and saw more hairs on the other trouser leg: Three small dogs. You concluded.   
“Oh, I know exactly where I’m going.” Sherlock smiled smugly.

Not long afterwards, you and Sherlock had been shown into an enormous ornate hall with massive crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. In Buckingham Palace. You blinked in disbelief. You looked around for a moment, then followed your escort who gestured him to a nearby room before walking away. On a small round table in the middle of the room was the pile of clothes and shoes which had been put down in front of Sherlock earlier. There was a sofa either side of the table. Sherlock plopped himself down on the left hand one. still wrapped in his sheet. You sat next to him.   
John holds out his hands in a “What the hell?!” gesture as he entered. Sherlock shrugged disinterestedly and looked away again. Nodding in a resigned way, John walked slowly around the room, then sat down on the sofa beside you. He gazed in front of himself for a moment, chewing back a giggle, looked around the room again. Then he looked at Sherlock, peering closely at his sheet and particularly the section wrapped around his backside. He turned his head away again.   
“Are you wearing any pants?”  
“No.”  
“Okay.” He sighs quietly. A moment later Sherlock turned and looked at him just as John also turns to look. Their eyes meet and you all promptly burst out laughing.  
“At Buckingham Palace, fine.” He gestured around to the extravagant room.  
“Oh, I’m seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray.” You snickered, setting the three of you off again.  
“What are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously, what?” You asked after calming down.   
“I don’t know.” Sherlock replied, still smiling brightly.   
“Here to see the Queen?” John smirked. At that moment Mycroft walked in from the next room.   
“Oh, apparently yes.” You cracked up again, causing John and Sherlock to promptly join in. You continued to giggle as Mycroft looks at you all in exasperation.   
“Just once, can you three behave like grown-ups?” Mycroft snapped unhappily.   
“We solve crimes, John blogs about it and he forgets his pants.” You gestured to Sherlock. “So I wouldn’t hold out too much hope.” Sherlock looks up at his brother as he walks into the room, all humour gone from his face.   
“I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft.”   
“What, the hiker and the backfire? I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious, surely?”  
“Transparent.”  
“Time to move on, then.” He bent down and picked up the clothes and shoes from the table, turning to offer them to Sherlock. His brother gazed at them uninterestedly. Mycroft sighed.   
“We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on.” He said sternly. Sherlock shrugged.  
“What for?”  
“Your client.” Sherlock stood up.  
“And my client is?”  
“Illustrious...” The three of you turned to look at the man who had just walked into the room.  
“...in the extreme.” John stood up respectfully.   
“And remaining – I have to inform you – entirely anonymous.” You smiled. Interesting.


	19. The Woman

"Mycroft!"  
"Harry." Mycroft smiled brightly as he walked over to shakes the equerry's hand. "May I just apologise for the state of my little brother?"   
"Full-time occupation, I imagine." Harry and Mycroft shared a light chuckled. Sherlock scowled. "And this must be Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”  
“Hello, yes." They shake hands then he turned to you.  
"Ah (y/n) Watson. I've heard a lot of good things about you. Second best only to Sherlock himself."  
"Second best?" You scoffed. "No. We're equals."   
The equerry smiled brightly. Sherlock winced at your statement but he knew it was true.   
"I like her." He said to Mycroft.   
"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog." Harry turned back to John.  
"Your employer?" John looked startled   
"Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminium crutch."   
"Thank you!" He looked at Sherlock, and cleared his throat smugly.  
Harry walked closer to Sherlock.  
"And Mr. Holmes the younger. You look taller in your photographs."   
"I take the precaution of a good coat and short friends." He smirked slightly and then looked at you and John momentarily, then walked abruptly past you forcing you to step back. You blink in disbelief at the rudeness of this action. He approached his brother.  
"Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work." He looked around to the equerry. "Good morning." He said with a nod before he started to walk out of the room. Mycroft stepped onto the trailing edge of the sheet behind him. Sherlock's impetus carried him forward while Mycroft's foot was pulling the sheet off his body. Sherlock stopped and grabbed at it before he was completely naked and tried to tug it back around himself, looking furious. You blushed brightly and tried to avert your eyes from Sherlock's compromised form. John and you lock eyes awkwardly as if to escape the situation.   
"This is a matter of national importance. Grow up."   
"Get off my sheet!" Sherlock growled through gritted teeth. His back still turned to his brother.   
"Or what?" Mycroft hissed.   
"Or I'll just walk away."  
"I'll let you." The eldest Holmes gruffawed.  
"Boys, please. Not here." You interrupted  
Sherlock was almost incandescent with rage  
"Who. Is. My. Client?" He demanded.  
"Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now for God's sake..." He broke off and glanced at the equerry briefly, trying to get his anger under control before he turned back to his brother again. "... put your clothes on!" He said in exasperation   
Sherlock closed his eyes furiously, then pulls in a sharp breath before being led away by a man in a shit who carried his clothes for him. You and John sat back on the sofa, faces still red.  
"So that was..." John started.  
"Yep." You cut him off. 

Some time later, Sherlock had dressed and was sitting on the sofa again beside you and John. Mycroft and the equerry sat on the opposite sofa. Mycroft poured the tea from a teapot, following the old-fashioned superstition that only one person in the household should pour the tea, and that person would be "being mother", he looked at the equerry and smiles.   
"I'll be mother." Mycroft said softly.   
"And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell." Sherlock said pointedly.   
Mycroft glowered at him, then put the teapot down. The equerry looked at Sherlock.   
"My employer has a problem." He stated.   
"A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen." The eldest Holmes stated.  
"Why? You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service. Why come to me?" Sherlock still seemed angry about being ripped from his sheets. You smirk at the childishness.   
"People do come to you for help, don't they, Mr. Holmes?"   
"Not, to date, anyone with a Navy."  
"This is a matter of the highest security, and therefore of trust."  
"You don't trust your own Secret Service?" John asked.  
"Naturally not. They all spy on people for money."   
John bit back a smile.   
"I do think we have a timetable."  
"Yes, of course. Um..." Mycroft opened his briefcase, and took out a glossy photograph and hands it to Sherlock. Both you and Sherlock look at it.   
"What do you know about this woman?"  
"Nothing whatsoever." Sherlock stated bored my. "Then you should be paying more attention. She's been at the centre of two political scandals in the last year, and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants separately."  
"You know I don't concern myself with trivia. Who is she?"  
"Irene Adler, professionally known as The Woman."  
"Professionally?" You asked.  
"There are many names for what she does. She prefers 'dominatrix'."  
"Dominatrix." Sherlock repeated thoughtfully  
"Don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex."  
"Sex doesn't alarm me."   
"How would you know?" His brother smirked snidely at him. You purposely didn't look at Sherlock, knowing that his brother would immediately suss there was something between the two of you. You kept your eyes forward.   
"Even so, it seems it alarms our dear (y/n)." Mycroft stared at your rigid state.  
"Not at all." You said with a furrowed brow.  
"Then why are you acting so... strange?" He said with a questioning look. "Anyway... She provides – shall we say – recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it."  
He took more photographs from his briefcase and handed them to Sherlock. "These are all from her website." Sherlock took the photographs and leafed through them quickly. They were professional-looking publicity shots for her 'services' and showed Irene at her glamorous and sexy best.  
"And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs." You said  
"You're very quick, Ms Watson."   
"Hardly a difficult deduction."   
"Photographs of whom?" Sherlock asked.  
"A person of significance to my employer. We'd prefer not to say any more at this time."   
Glaring at him angrily, Sherlock put the photographs down on the table.  
"You can't tell us anything?"  
"I can tell you it's a young person."  
John took a drink from his teacup.   
"A young female person." John's eyes widen. But you stayed stone-faced. Sherlock smirked.   
"How many photographs?"  
"A considerable number, apparently."   
"Do Miss Adler and this young female person appear in these photographs together?" You asked.  
"Yes, they do."  
"And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios."   
"An imaginative range, we are assured." Without looking at him, Sherlock realised that John was staring blankly at Mycroft with his teacup still half raised.  
"John, you might want to put that cup back in your saucer now." Sherlock stated. John quickly did as he was advised.   
"Can you help us?"  
"How?" Sherlock dismissed.  
"Will you take the case?"  
"What case? Pay her, now and in full. As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, "Know when you are beaten"." He turned and reaches for his coat which was draped on the back of the sofa.  
"She doesn't want anything."  
Sherlock turned back towards him, interested.   
"She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed, she indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favour."  
"Oh, a power play. A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that is a dominatrix. Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?" He smirked. "Sherlock..." John said, his tone warning.  
"Hmm." Sherlock hummed. He turned around and reaches for his coat again. "Where is she?"   
"Uh, in London currently. She's staying..." Not waiting for his brother to finish, Sherlock picked up his coat, stood up and started to walk away.  
"Text me the details. I'll be in touch by the end of the day."   
Everyone else isn't he room then got to their feet.   
"Do you really think you'll have news by then?"  
Sherlock turned back to him. "No, I think I'll have the photographs." He stated.  
"One can only hope you're as good as you seem to think." Sherlock looks at him sharply, indignant that he should doubt him. You could tell that he was deducing him. You smirked   
"I'll need some equipment, of course."  
"Anything you require. I'll have it sent to ..."   
Sherlock interrupted his brother.  
"Can I have a box of matches?" He looked at the equerry as he speaks.  
"I'm sorry?"  
"Or your cigarette lighter. Either will do." He held out his hand expectantly.  
"I don't smoke." The man stated  
"No, I know you don't, but your employer does."   
After a pause during which John frowned in puzzlement, the equerry reached into his pocket and takes out a lighter which he handed to Sherlock.  
"We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr. Holmes."  
"I'm not the Commonwealth." Sherlock stated as he took the lighter and put it into his trouser pocket, he turned away.   
"And that's as modest as he gets. Pleasure to meet you." You smiled as you and John followed after Sherlock as he strolled out of the room.  
"Laters!" Sherlock called back, not sounding the 't' in the word and turning the 's' sound into a 'z'.  
John threw an apologetic glance over his shoulder as you left. 

The three of you sat in the back of a taxi once more.  
"Okay, the smoking. How did you know?"  
Sherlock smiled briefly, then shakes his head.   
"The evidence was right under your nose, John." You stated.  
"As ever, you see but do not observe." Sherlock smirked at him.   
"Observe what?" John said ad Sherlock reached into his coat.  
"The ashtray." You stared.  
Sherlock pulls out a glass ashtray. John laughed with delight as Sherlock tosses the ashtray into the air, caught it and tucked it back into his coat, chuckling. Your mouth hung open.  
"You didn't-" you gawped in disbelief.  
"Sherlock Holmes did you just steal from Buckingham Palace!?"   
Sherlock just responded with a cocky smirk. You laughed in disbelief.  
"I know I said I was resisting stealing an ashtray, but I was joking!" The three of you laughed.

At 221B, John sat in the living room as, on the other side of the kitchen, Sherlock hurled clothes around his bedroom. With the door open, the noise was extremely distracting and loud. Finally John looked up from what he's reading.   
"What are you doing?" He sighed loudly.  
"Going into battle, John. I need the right armour."  
He walked into the living room, wearing a large yellow hi-vis jacket. You chortled at the sight of him.   
"No." He ripped it off again and stormed back into his bedroom. John continued to read. You followed Sherlock into his room.   
"Trying to impress the dominatrix?" You asked.  
"Is someone jealous?" Although he was faced away from you, you could tell he was smirking by the tone of his voice.  
"No- not at all." You said, almost too defensively.  
Sherlock stood up and turned to you.  
"Don't worry, you're the only one I have eyes for." He kissed you gently.   
"(Y/N)?" John called. Sherlock pulled away from you and returned to his drawers. You sat on Sherlocks bed.   
"What're you guys doing?" John asked, wanting to be included.   
"If he's dressing up to impress Miss Adler." You said her name with obvious dislike for the woman you hadn't even met. "Surely he could do with the help of a woman." John smiled  
"Clever!" He exclaimed at you. "I'll go make tea for us." Your brother smiled.  
"You're helping me impress another woman?" Sherlock raised a brow at you.  
"Why not. It's for the good of the case." You smiled.  
"Plus I'm the one who gets to see you when you're in a sheet." You teased. "And almost saw you without the sheet, thanks to your brother." You chuckled.   
"Maybe you'd like to see me without the sheet some other time." Sherlock flirted badly in a hushed tone, closing in on you.   
"Any biscuits?" John shouted in from the kitchen. Once again Sherlock walked back to the drawers with a sigh of defeat.  
"No thanks." You shouted back. You picked out a dark shirt, some tailored pants and a nice suit jacket for Sherlock. He nodded approvingly at your choice.   
"You'll look great." John smiled

The two of you stood outside Sherlock's room as you waited for Sherlock to change.  
"I'm kind of glad he's trying to impress this woman, you know." John whispered to you.  
"I was starting to worry he had a thing for you." He chuckled. Your eyes widened.  
"Oh no- not a chance." You said awkwardly.  
"But remember John, this woman might be a psychopath. We know nothing about her." He nodded in agreement.  
"Yeah, yeah. You're right."   
Sherlock didn't change. He just came out wearing what he had worn earlier. You raised your eyebrows in confusion.   
"Taxi is outside." Sherlock said simply before walking out the flat and onto the street. You and John followed.

Sherlock was wearing his usual coat and scarf.   
"So, what's the plan?" John asked  
"We know her address..." you said.  
"What, just ring her doorbell?"  
"Exactly." Sherlock stated. "Just here, please."  
He called to the cab driver.   
"You didn't even change your clothes." You said sulkily.  
"Then it's time to add a splash of colour." You and John exchanges a confused look.  
You got out of the taxi and Sherlock lead you and John down a narrow street, pulling his scarf off as he went. Eventually he stopped and turns around to face you and your brother.   
"Are we here?" John aske  
"Two streets away, but this'll do."   
"For what?" You asked. The tall detective gestured to his left cheek.   
"Punch me in the face." He said.  
"Punch you?" You repeated, dumbfounded.   
"Yes. Punch me, in the face." He gestured to his left cheek again.  
"Didn't you hear me?"  
"I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually sub-text." You said in a matter-of-fact tone.  
"Oh, for God's sakes." Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. He punched John in the face and John grunted in pain and reeled from the blow, Sherlock shook out his hand and then blows out a breath, bracing himself. John straightened up and immediately punched at Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't stop himself and he ducked the punch, causing John to clock you on the cheek. You staggered back from the force of the blow. You clutched your cheek and stood blinking. You had not been expecting that. John blinked at you.  
"I am so-" you cut your brother off with a punch back at him.   
"I've wanted to do that so many times..." you muttered, then you turned to Sherlock who was grinning at you. The smug grin just piqued your anger and you flew at him, and punched him in his left cheek like he had told you in the beginning. He staggered a bit, and moved his jaw to make sure you hadn't broken anything.   
"You're stronger than you look." Sherlock said with a small grin as he wiped some blood from his face.   
You flexed your hand painfully as you examined your knuckles. Sherlock finally straightened up, holding his fingers to the cut on his cheek.   
"Thank you. That was – that was ..." Sherlock panted. John punched him in the stomach, sending him crashing to the ground.  
"That's for making me hit my sister."   
Sherlock doubled over with John on his back half–strangling him. John's face was contorted with pent-up anger and frustration, and Sherlock is struggling to pull his hands off him. You grabbed John's arm and pulled it off of Sherlock, but he pulled it back at the same time to punch Sherlock again, resulting in his elbow crashing into your nose. You went reeling backwards, clutching your now bloodied nose.  
"Okay! I think we're done now, John." Sherlock said, half choking.   
John turned to you. "Oh my god are you ok? I'm so sorry..." He went to touch you but you aggressively shrugged his hand away.   
"You wanna remember, Sherlock: I was a soldier. I killed people." He snapped at the man who was struggling to get up from the floor.  
"You were a doctor!" You snapped, still angry at him for your nose.   
"I had bad days!" John snapped back.   
Sherlock blinked in shock as you helped him up.   
"Don't worry, I'm not going to hit you again." You muttered.  
Sherlock reached into his pocket and brought out a piece of white plastic which he placed under his collar, making it look like a priest's dog collar.  
"Ok, Father Sherlock." You laughed bitterly, which turned into a groan of pain from your nose. 

The three of you walked to Irene's house, still battered and bleeding. Sherlock pressed the buzzer.  
"Hello?" A voice called through the intercom.  
Sherlock stared into the camera wide-eyed and flustered. He talked in an anxious, tearful voice and keeps looking around behind him as he spoke.   
"Ooh! Um, sorry to disturb you. Um, I've just been attacked, um, and, um, I think they ... they took my wallet and, um, and my phone. Umm, please could you help me?" You wanted to applaud his acting ability.  
"I can phone the police if you want."  
"Thank you, thank you! Could you, please?" He took a step back.   
"Oh, would you ... would you mind if I just waited here, just until they come? Thank you. Thank you so much." He said as he held a handkerchief to his cheek, he started to grizzle pathetically. The buzzer sounded, letting him in. Sherlock comes in, followed by John and you. Sherlock held his character.   
"Thank you." He briefly looked around the large entrance hall.  
"Er, ooh!"  
John closed the door  
"I – I saw it all happen. It's okay, I'm a doctor."  
The petite woman nodded. She was Irene. A maid you assumed.  
"Now, have you got a first aid kit?"   
"In the kitchen." She gestures for Sherlock to go into the front room. You followed John and the maid into the kitchen.   
"Please."  
"Oh! Thank you!" Sherlock said as he made his way into the living room.

John wipes your nose with an antiseptic wipe. You hissed in pain.  
"Ouch." You protested.  
"Stay still!" Your brother placed his hands on your shoulders to stop your wriggling. You sighed irritably.  
"It's not broken, you don't need stitches. Just a bit of a bleed. You'll be fine."  
"If I wasn't, you'd be hearing about it." You mumbled.  
"I'm sorry."  
"For hitting me or trying to kill Sherlock?"  
"Hitting you. Definitely not about trying to kill Sherlock." You both chuckled slightly.  
"Fair enough." 

John walked into the living room carrying a bowl of water and a fabric napkin, you followed behind him. His eyes were lowered to the bowl to avoid spilling its contents.  
"Right, this should do it." John said. He stops dead in the doorway and he lifted his head to sees the scene in front of him. You wonder why he had stopped so suddenly and looked over his shoulder.   
Irene looked to you and your brother the plastic from Sherlock's collar in her teeth. She was stark naked. You stared at her, completely confused.  
John looked at her awkwardly, then down at the bowl before looking up again.   
"I've missed something, haven't I?" John whispered.


	20. Ugly Jealousy

Irene took the plastic from her teeth. You glowered grimly.  
“Please, sit down.” She stepped back from Sherlock, who fidgeted uncomfortably on the sofa as she walked away.  
“Oh, if you’d like some tea I can call the maid.”  
“I had some at the Palace.”  
“I know.” She sat down in a nearby armchair and crossed her legs, folding her arms gracefully to obscure the view of her chest. At that moment, an ugly jealousy shifted uncomfortably in your stomach. This woman was absolutely gorgeous. And psychotic. Sherlock would be extremely interested by her. You had nothing on this woman.  
“Clearly.” You stared silently at each other for several seconds, weighing each other up. John looked at the both of you awkwardly.  
“I had a tea, too, at the Palace, if anyone’s interested.” John stated. Sherlock’s eyes were still fixed on Irene as he attempts to make as many deductions as he can about her. For some reason, you could find absolutely nothing about her.  
“D’you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?” He quirked an eyebrow at her. “However hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait.”  
“You think I’m a vicar with a bleeding face?”  
“No, I think you’re damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it’s yourself.” Finally fed up with the tightness of his shirt, Sherlock started unbuttoning the top two buttons. This made your stomach churn. Irene leant forward.  
“Oh, and somebody loves you. Why, if I had to punch that face, I’d avoid your nose and teeth too.”  
She glanced across to John momentarily, not thinking you were the one to land such a blow. John forced a laugh. Sherlock looked at you and his gaze softened for a moment, until he looked back up at Irene and his eyes turned steely again.  
“Could you put something on, please? Er, anything at all.” John looked down at what he’s holding. A napkin. 

“Why? Are you feeling exposed?”  
Sherlock stood up. “I don’t think John knows where to look.” He picked up his coat and shook it out, holding it out to Irene. She ignored him for a moment, standing up and walking closer to John, who rolled his head on his neck uncomfortably and forced himself to maintain eye contact with her and not to let his eyes wander lower.  
“No, I think he knows exactly where.” She turned to Sherlock who was still holding out the coat while steadfastly keeping his gaze averted.  
“I’m not sure about you, though.” She took the coat.  
“If I wanted to look at naked women I’d borrow John’s laptop.”  
“You do borrow his laptop.” You stated.  
“I confiscate it.” He walked over to the fireplace opposite the sofa.  
Irene put the coat, wrapping it around her.  
“Well, never mind. We’ve got better things to talk about. Now tell me – I need to know.” She walked over to the sofa and sat down. “How was it done?” “What?” Sherlock blinked in confusion  
“The hiker with the bashed-in head. How was he killed?” She said as she slipped her heels off.  
You and the boys exchanged confused glances. “That’s not why I’m here.”  
“No, no, no, you’re here for the photographs but that’s never gonna happen, and since we’re here just chatting anyway ...”  
“That story’s not been on the news yet. How do you know about it?”  
“I know one of the policemen. Well, I know what he likes.”  
“Oh. And you like policemen?”  
“I like detective stories – and detectives.” She smiled at Sherlock seductively. “Brainy’s the new sexy.”  
“Positionofthecar ...” Sherlock mumbled incoherently. John turns his head and stared at him as he pulls himself together. “Er, the position of the car relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire. That and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head. That’s all you need to know.” Sherlock was slowly pacing the room.  
“Okay, tell me: how was he murdered?”  
“He wasn’t.” You interjected. You had enough of the woman who was wrapped in Sherlocks coat. A coat he didn’t like anyone touching. A coat that he had let you wear on the night you had kissed.  
“You don’t think it was murder?”  
“I know it wasn’t.”  
“How?”  
“The same way that I know the victim was an excellent sportsman recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs we’re looking for are in this room.”  
“Okay, but how?”  
“So they are in this room. Thank you. John, man the door. Let no-one in.” Sherlock said with a smirk. You got up with your brother to leave.  
“Where are you going, (y/n)?” Sherlock frowned.  
“With John.” You said. You couldn’t bare to see Sherlock and that woman anymore. It was just making your stomach churn. 

You and John stood in the corridor outside the sitting room. John took a magazine from the bookcase and a lighter from his pocket.  
Jealousy was an ugly thing. You had never really been the jealous type, but it seemed the detective was a soft spot for you. You glowered darkly.  
“You look like you’re about to murder someone.” You brother smirked at you. You snapped yourself back to reality.  
“Y-yeah well I’m still pissed about my nose.” You lied. John smiled as he lit the magazine which then burst into flames. He then proceeded to blow it out mostly until it curled and smouldered in his hand. He flapped it around, allowing the smoke to drift upwards, setting off the smoke alarm. He waved his hand over the magazine and blowed on it to try to put it out completely.

“All right, John, you can turn it off now.” Sherlock called out. 

John was still trying to put out the smouldering magazine.  
“I said you can turn it off now.” Sherlock shouted once more  
“Give me a minute!”  
He started thwacking the end of the magazine on the table, but then looked round as three men ran down the stairs, their feet making loud banging noises on the stairs. The first one raised an enormous pistol –the silencer of which is so long that he must have been compensating for some other shortcoming – and fired it up at the smoke alarm, shattering it. The beeping stopped. One of the other men hurries towards you and John, aiming his pistol at him and both of you instantly raised your hands, looking at the first turns his weapon on to you.  
“Thank you.” John said meekly.

They kicked the living room door open and the leader of the group entered and aimed his pistol at Sherlock.  
“Hands behind your head.” He said to Sherlock. “On the floor. Keep it still.” He flicked his gun to the floor to show you to get down. You did as you were told. The second man approached Irene and walked her nearer to John who was being bundled in by a third man.  
“Sorry, Sherlock.” Your brother sighed. Sherlock raised his hands to show he was surrendering, the man looked at Irene.  
“Ms Adler, on the floor.” He snapped.  
His colleague shoved her to her knees beside John who had also been pushed to his knees. You were next to him on the floor with your hands behind your head and a pistol pointed to the back of your neck. The cold metal against your bare skin made you shudder.  
“Don’t you want me on the floor too?”  
“No, sir, I want you to open the safe.” The mans accent was definitely not British.  
“American. Interesting. Why would you care?” He glanced across at Irene as she put her hands behind her head.  
“Sir, the safe, now, please.” For someone holding people at gun point, he was polite.  
“I don’t know the code.”  
“We’ve been listening. She said she told you.”  
“Well, if you’d been listening, you’d know she didn’t.” Sherlock shot back irritably.  
“I’m assuming I missed something. From your reputation, I’m assuming you didn’t, Mr. Holmes.” “For God’s sake. She’s the one who knows the code. Ask her.” John snapped  
“Yes, sir. She also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm. I’ve learned not to trust this woman.”  
“Mr. Holmes doesn’t ...” Irene started  
“Shut up. One more word out of you – just one – and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That, for me, will not be a hardship.”  
Sherlock glared at the stranger ferociously.  
“Mr. Archer. At the count of three, shoot Ms. Watson.”  
“What?” Johns eyes widened as he looked to you.  
“I don’t have the code.” Sherlock said, his eyes wide in worry. You flinched as the muzzle of a pistol pressed into the back of your neck. You heard a click as it was cocked.  
“One.”  
“I don’t know the code.” Sherlock pleaded emphatically.  
“Two.”  
“She didn’t tell me.” He raised his voice. LI don’t know it!”  
I’m prepared to believe you any second now. Sherlock looked across to Irene who lowered her gaze pointedly downwards.  
“Three.” You squoze your eyes closed.  
“No, stop!” Sherlock shouted.

The American held up his free hand to stop the man from shooting you. John closed his eyes in relief.Sherlock’s gaze became distant as his mind worked frantically, then he slowly turned towards the safe and lowered his hands. He slowly reaches out a finger towards the keypad and punched a ‘3’ and then a ‘2’. He hesitated for a moment, he then punched in ‘2’ and ‘4’. Pausing again, he hit ‘3’ and ‘4’. The safe beeped and noisily unlocked. Irene smiled in satisfaction as Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes briefly. John sagged lower on his knees and shuts his own eyes.  
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Open it, please.”  
Sherlock looked across to Irene again who lowered her gaze to the floor and made a tiny jerk with her head. He turns back to the safe and twisted the handle.  
“Vatican cameos.” Sherlock said urgently. Instantly John threw himself to the floor. At the same moment Sherlock pulled open the door of the safe then proceeded to duck down below the fireplace. Inside the safe, a tripwire attached to the door tugged on the trigger of a pistol with an equally long and over-compensatory silencer which aimed straight out of the safe. The gun fires and one of the Americans – who happened to be standing directly in front of it – was shot in the chest. Sherlock grabbed for the leader’s pistol as you spun around on your knees and savagely elbowed the guard behind you in the groin. The man doubled over to the floor, and Irene grabbed his gun. Pulling the pistol from the leader’s grip, Sherlock held the silencer end and smashed the butt across his face the man dropped to the floor unconscious. Irene stood up and aimed the gun down at the final guard. Sherlock turned to her.  
“D’you mind?” He gestured ya the guard.  
“Not at all.”  
As her guard tried to get up again, she slammed the gun across his face, knocking him unconscious.

While she was distracted, Sherlock reached into the safe and took something out of it. John had approached the American who had been shot.  
“He’s dead.”  
Irene continued aiming her pistol down at her guard “Thank you. You were very observant.”  
“Observant?” John cocked his eyebrow. You flushed as you gathered what she meant- the safe combination. Her measurements. “I’m flattered.”  
“Don’t be.”  
“Flattered?” John still didn’t know.  
“There’ll be more of them. They’ll be keeping a eye on the building.” Sherlock stated, still holding the American’s gun. He removed the silencer and hurried out of the room as John tucked the other gun into the back of his jeans and followed him. Irene walked over to the safe and stared into it wide-eyed. Sherlock trotted out onto the street with you and John close behind him.  
“We should call the police.” John started.  
“Yes.” Sherlock pointed the pistol into the air, he fired it four times. Nearby, tyres screech. He fired once more for good measure.  
“On their way.” He turned and trotted back into the house.  
“For God’s sake!” John sighed.  
“Oh shut up. It’s quick.”  
He returned to the sitting room as Irene turned from the safe.  
“Check the rest of the house. See how they got in.” He said to you and John. You both hurried off to different sides of the house. 

You checked windows, doors. Nothing- they were all locked.  
“Sherlock!” John called out.  
You ran in the direction of his voice.

Upstairs in a bedroom, John knelt over the silent figure of a woman lying on the floor. He placed his ear to her mouth to check her breathing, he straightened up and took her pulse. As your brother tended to the woman, you went into the en suite bathroom and looked at the open window in there. Sherlock came into the bedroom closely followed by Irene.  
“They came in this way.” You muttered.  
“Clearly.” Sherlock said as he joined you looking out the window.  
Irene walked anxiously towards the woman.  
“It’s all right. She’s just out cold.”  
“Well, God knows she’s used to that. There’s a back door. Better check it, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock had come out of the bathroom and nods to you both to leave.  
“Sure.” John sighed. You didn’t want to leave Sherlock alone with her again, but you begrudgingly complied and left with your brother.

The back door was locked. You and John arrived back at the bedroom to see Irene towering over Sherlock’s body. Sherlock was clutching his arm and groaning uncomfortably. Irene headed to the bathroom.  
“Jesus! What are you doing?” John gasped.  
“He’ll sleep for a few hours. Make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit. It makes for a very unattractive corpse.” You wanted to slap the smug woman. She sat on the windowsill in the bathroom, and put her feet up on the edge of the bath, taking hold of a cord hanging from the ledge.  
You picked up a small syringe lying on the floor. “What’s this? What have you given him? Sherlock!” You crouched next to the almost unconscious man. “He’ll be fine. I’ve used it on loads of my friends.” “Sherlock, can you hear me?” You urged.  
“You know, I was wrong about him. He did know where to look.”  
John stood up again and turned to her  
“For what? What are you talking about?”  
“The key code to my safe.”  
“What was it?” She looked down to Sherlock who was gazing at her, barely conscious but still trying in vain to get up.  
“Shall I tell him?”  
John looked down at him for a moment then turned back to Irene just as sirens announced the arrival of the police. Irene smiled at him.  
“My measurements.”  
And with that she pushed her feet against the edge of the bath and toppled backwards out of the window, still holding what looked like a cord but was apparently more like a thin rope. John hurried over to the window and looks out while you tried to soothe Sherlock who was still trying vainly to lift himself up but continued to fall back helplessly.

You and John helped Sherlock into the back of a cab. You sighed at his sleeping form.  
“He’ll be fine.” John said softly.  
“I just wanted to slap her.” You said to your brother.  
“Pretentious bitch...” you mumbled  
John chuckled slightly.  
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so on edge.” You smiled slightly.  
“I don’t know, just something about her rubbed me the wrong way.” John nodded.  
“Sherlock does that to me sometimes.” You both chuckled lightly. 

You arrived back at 221B with Lestrade. Sherlock by this point was blabbering senselessly. He was still though, which made it easier to carry him to his room. You and John placed the man on his side in his bed. You stepped back and looked at the mans sleeping form. His chest was rising and falling slowly and peacefully. You smiled slightly. You were the one who got to see him like this, not her.  
Checkmate Ms. Adler.  
“You want some tea?” John offered as he began to walk away.  
You nodded.  
“Yeah, please.” You smiled back at him. John left the room, leaving you watching over Sherlock once again. You gently kissed his forehead, then quietly closed the door. 

You sat with John in the living room, the tv emitting whispers as to not wake Sherlock up. You had wasted about two hours watching re-runs of old shows that frankly sucked, but you watched anyway for the sake of Nostalgia. You and John had drank about five cups of tea each and eaten a full packet of chocolate digestives between the two of you. You were watching FRIENDS when you heard a crash from Sherlock’s bedroom.  
“John?” Sherlock’s voice called out. You and John both gave each other the “ignore it, he’ll go back to sleep.” As if he was your child. “John!” Sherlock shouted louder. The two of you sighed as you hauled yourselves out of your seats and towards the man-child. When you looked into the room Sherlock had thrown the sheet off and knelt up on the bed, then promptly lost his balance, fell forward and rolled over the foot of the bed and onto the floor.  
You chuckled.  
“You okay?” John sighed.  
“How did I get here?”  
“Well, I don’t suppose you remember much. You weren’t making a lot of sense. Oh, I should warn you: I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone.”  
You smiled.  
“Oh he definitely did.”  
“Where is she?” Sherlock stumbled to his feet, not finding the humour in it. He looked almost frenzied.  
“Where’s who?”  
“The woman. That woman.”  
“What woman?”  
Sherlock stumbled around the room aimlessly, falling over his own feet.  
“The woman. The woman woman!”  
“What, Irene Adler? She got away. No-one saw her.”  
Sherlock stumbled over to the open window and looks through it.  
“She wasn’t here, Sherlock.” You say, an eyebrow raised. Turning around, Sherlock fell down again and started to drag himself across the floor.  
“What are you ...? What ...? No, no, no, no.”  
You helped him as he hauled Sherlock up and dropped him face-down onto the bed again.  
“Back to bed.” John ordered.  
He covered him over with the sheet again.  
“You’ll be fine in the morning. Just sleep.” You assured him, although you knew the likelihood of him listening was slim.  
The two of you left Sherlock and went to watch TV again. It wasn’t long before John was snoozing in his armchair. You brought a spare blanket from your room and covered your brother up, before heading to bed yourself.

The next morning, Sherlock had fully recovered. The three of you sat at the table in the living room. John and you were eating breakfast while Sherlock read a newspaper. Mycroft stood nearby, waiting for Sherlock to speak.   
“The photographs are perfectly safe.”   
“In the hands of a fugitive sex worker.” Mycroft snapped.  
“She’s not interested in blackmail. She wants ... protection for some reason. I take it you’ve stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?” You said after you swallowed a bite of your toast.  
“How can we do anything while she has the photographs? Our hands are tied.”  
“She’d applaud your choice of words.” Sherlock smirked. “You see how this works: that camera phone is her “Get out of jail free” card. You have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty, Mycroft.”  
“Though not the way she treats royalty.” John added. He smiled at Mycroft sarcastically, who returned the smile humourlessly. A light woman’s moan rang through the room, sounding like it came from Sherlock’s direction. Everyone in the room, bar Sherlock frowned in confusion.  
“What was that?” John asked  
“Text.” Sherlock said, trying his best to look nonchalant.  
“But what was that noise?” Sherlock got up and walked over to pick up his phone from the nearby seat. He reads the text.  
“Did you know there were other people after her too, Mycroft, before you sent John and I in there? CIA-trained killers, at an excellent guess.” Sherlock changed the subject. He went back to the table and sat down again as John looked at Mycroft.   
“Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft.” John said sarcastically. Mrs Hudson brung in a plate of breakfast from the kitchen and put it down in front of Sherlock.   
“It’s a disgrace, sending your little brother into danger like that. Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes.” She tutted.  
“Oh, shut up, Mrs Hudson.”  
“MYCROFT!” Sherlock, John and you all shouted  
simultaneously and furiously.  
Mycroft looked at your angry faces glaring at him, then cringed and looked contritely at Mrs Hudson. “Apologies.”  
“Thank you.”  
“Though do, in fact, shut up.” Sherlock said softly.  
His phone sighed orgasmically again. Mrs Hudson, who was going back into the kitchen, turned back. “Ooh. It’s a bit rude, that noise, isn’t it?”  
Sherlock glanced at the latest message.   
“There’s nothing you can do and nothing she will do as far as I can see.”  
“I can put maximum surveillance on her.”   
“Why bother? You can follow her on Twitter. I believe her user name is “TheWhipHand”.” You stared.  
“Yes. Most amusing.” The eldest Holmes’ phone rang and he took it from his pocket.  
“‘Scuse me.” He said before going to exit the room.  
“Hello?” Sherlock watched him leave, frowning suspiciously. John looked at him.  
“Why does your phone make that noise?” Your brother asked  
“What noise?” Sherlock dismissed  
“That noise – the one it just made.”  
“It’s a text alert. It means I’ve got a text.”  
“Hmm. Your texts don’t usually make that noise.”  
“Well, somebody got hold of the phone and apparently, as a joke, personalised their text alert noise.”  
“Hmm. So every time they text you ...”  
Right on cue, the phone sighed again.  
“It would seem so.”  
“Could you turn that phone down a bit? At my time of life.” Mrs Hudson scolded.  
“I’m wondering who could have got hold of your phone, because it would have been in your coat, wouldn’t it?” John said. You knew exactly who, and you weren’t happy about it.  
Sherlock raised his newspaper so that it’s obscuring his face.   
“I’ll leave you to your deductions.”   
John smiled. “I’m not stupid, you know.”   
“Where do you get that idea?”   
Mycroft entered the room once more, still talking on his phone.  
“Bond Air is go, that’s decided. Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later.” He hung up. Sherlock looked at him.  
“What else does she have?” Mycroft looks at his brother enquiringly. “Irene Adler. The Americans wouldn’t be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There’s more.” Sherlock stated as he faced his brother. “Much more.” Mycroft looked at him with a stony face. Sherlock walked closer to him.  
“Something big’s coming, isn’t it?”  
“Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours. From now on you will stay out of this.” Mycroft asserted.  
The brothers locked eyes intensely.   
“Oh, will I?”  
“Yes, Sherlock, you will.” Sherlock shrugged and turns away.  
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend.”   
Sherlock picked up his violin.  
“Do give her my love.” He smirked as he started playing God Save The Queen.  
Mycroft rolled his eyes, turned and left the room, Sherlock followed along behind him as you and John grinned at each other. Mycroft hurried down the stairs. Sherlock turned back and walked over to the window, still playing.   
You smiled, listening to him play.


	21. Christmas

The lights around the fireplace twinkled brightly as you fixed some tinsel around the fireplace. You then stood by the window, fixing some decorations by the window. You smiled as you realised it was snowing outside. You stepped back and admired the living room, festooned with Christmas decorations and cards, Sherlock strolled around playing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” on his violin. The fireplace was lit and giving off a warm feeling to the people in the room. Mrs Hudson sat in Sherlock’s chair with a glass in her hand, watching him happily. Lestrade stood at the entrance to the kitchen holding a wine glass. John – wearing a very snazzy Christmassy jumper – walked across the room with a cup and saucer in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. As Sherlock finished the tune with a fancy flourish, the room erupted into cheers of appreciation.  
“Lovely! Sherlock, that was lovely!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed. She was wobbling slightly, apparently a little tipsy.  
“Marvellous!” You smiled at him.  
“I wish you could have worn the antlers!” Mrs Hudson giggles.  
“Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock.  
John handed her a cup of tea, perhaps attempting to sober her up. A woman in her thirties, and John’s latest fling, brung over a tray containing mince pies and slices of cake and offered it to Sherlock.   
“No thank you, Sarah.” Her face fell. John hurried over to her and put his arm around her as she turned away.  
“Uh, no, no, no, no, no. He’s not good with names.” “No-no-no, I can get this.” Sherlock insisted. The woman put the tray down and straightensd up, folding her arms and looking at Sherlock as he started. “No, Sarah was the doctor; and then there was the one with the spots; and then the one with the nose; and then ... who was after the boring teacher?”  
“Nobody.” The woman said quietly.  
“Jeanette!” He grinned falsely at her. “Ah, process of elimination.” John awkwardly shepherded Jeanette away. Sherlock looked across to the door as a new arrival stepped in.  
“Oh, dear Lord.” Both you and Sherlock muttered as Molly Hooper walked in, smiling shyly and carrying two bags which appeared to be full of presents.  
“Hello, everyone. Sorry, hello.” John walked over to greet her, smiling. “Er, it said on the door just to come up.” Everyone greeted her cheerfully apart from you and Sherlock. You just held your hand up to her in a tiny wave. Sherlock rolled his eyes.   
“Oh, everybody’s saying hello to each other. How wonderful.” He said sarcastically.  
Smiling at him nervously, Molly took her coat and scarf off.  
John stood ready to take her coat  
“Let me, er ... holy Mary!” Lestrade gawps in similar appreciation as Molly revealed her very attractive black dress.  
“Wow!” Lestrade smiled. Molly giggled slightly at the attention.  
“Having a Christmas drinkies, then?”  
“No stopping them, apparently.” Sherlock sighed.  
“It’s the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me, so it’s almost worth it!” Mrs Hudson smiled. Molly giggled nervously, her eyes fixed on Sherlock as he started typing on John’s laptop. John brung a chair over for her.   
“Have a seat.”  
“John?”  
“Mmm?” As he went over to see what Sherlock is looking at, Lestrade touched Molly’s arm to get her attention.  
“Molly?” She turned to him. “Want a drink?” As she accepted his offer, John leant over Sherlock’s shoulder to look at the screen.  
“The counter on your blog: still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five.”  
“Ooh, no! Christmas is cancelled!” He said with a mock-angry face. Sherlock pointed to the side bar which had one of the press pictures of him in his deerstalker.  
“And you’ve got a photograph of me wearing that hat!”  
“I was the one who suggested that.” You chuckled.  
“People like the hat.”  
“No they don’t. What people?” He continued looking at the laptop as John walked away. Molly turned to Mrs Hudson.  
“How’s the hip?” She asked  
“Ooh, it’s atrocious, but thanks for asking.”   
“I’ve seen much worse, but then I do post-mortems.” She attempted to joke.  
An awkward silence fell over the room . Molly looked utterly embarrassed.  
“Oh, God. Sorry.” She apologised.   
“Don’t make jokes, Molly.” Sherlock said.  
“No. Sorry.” Lestrade handed her a glass of red wine.  
“Thank you. I wasn’t expecting to see you. I thought you were gonna be in Dorset for Christmas.”  
“That’s first thing in the morning. Me and the wife – we’re back together. It’s all sorted.” Lestrade grinned at her.  
“No, she’s sleeping with a P.E. teacher.”   
Lestrade’s smile became rather fixed. You wanted to clip Sherlock around the head for that. Molly turned to John who was sitting on the arm of his armchair. Jeanette was sitting in the chair itself.  
LAnd John. I hear you’re off to your sister’s, is that right? Are you going too, (y/n)?” You shook your head.  
“Sherlock was complaining.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows indignantly. “...saying.” She corrected herself.   
“First time ever, she’s cleaned up her act. She’s off the booze.”  
“Nope.” Sherlock said.  
“Shut up, Sherlock.”  
“He’s right.” You mumbled.  
“I see you’ve got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you’re serious about him.” Sherlock cut you off.  
“Sorry, what?”  
“In fact, you’re seeing him this very night and giving him a gift.”  
“Take a day off.” John sighed quietly, exasperated.  
Lestrade took a glass across to the table and put it down near Sherlock.  
“Shut up and have a drink.” He said. He then handed you a glass of wine.  
“Thank you.” You raised the glass to him.  
“Oh, come on. Surely you’ve all seen the present at the top of the bag – perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best.”  
He stood up and walked towards Molly, looking at the other presents which aren’t as carefully wrapped.  
“It’s for someone special, then.” He picks up the well-wrapped present.” You immediately clocked what was going on.  
“Sherlock.” You warned.  
“The shade of red echoes her lipstick – either an unconscious association or one that she’s deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has lurrrve on her mind. The fact that she’s serious about him is clear from the fact she’s giving him a gift at all.”  
“Sherlock.” You raised your voice slightly.   
John looked at Molly anxiously as she squirmed in front of Sherlock.  
“That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn; and that she’s seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she’s wearing.” He smiled smugly across to John and Jeanette, he started to turn over the gift tag attached to the present.  
“Sherlock.” You said once more, but he wasn’t listening.  
“Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts ...” that one would’ve hurt. You thought.   
“Sherlock. Look at the tag.” You said, he finally listened. He trailed off as he looked down at the writing on the tag. Written in red ink, the greeting read- Dearest Sherlock Love Molly xxx Sherlock gazed at the words in shock as he realised the terrible thing that he had just done. Molly gasped quietly.  
“You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always.” She fought back tears, Sherlock turned to walk away ... but then stopped and turns back to her after seeing your unhappy face.   
“I am sorry. Forgive me.” John looked up, startled and amazed at such a human reaction from his friend. Sherlock stepped closer to Molly.  
“Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper.” He lent forward and gently kissed her on the cheek. It was a sweet moment, which was instantly ruined by the sound of an orgasmic sigh. Molly gasped in shock.  
“No! That wasn’t ... I – I didn’t ...”  
“No, it was me.” Sherlock said, annoyed.  
“My God, really?!”  
“What?!” Lestrade looked like he was about to burst. “My phone.” He reached into his jacket pocket to get the phone. You narrowed your eyes, focousingn on Sherlock.  
“Fifty-seven?” You stared.  
“Sorry, what?”   
“Fifty-seven of those texts – the ones I’ve heard.” You said, annoyed. Sherlock looked at the message. “Thrilling that you’ve been counting.” He said as he headed to the fireplace. He picked up a small box wrapped in blood-red paper and tied with black rope-like string.   
“‘Scuse me.” He walked toward the kitchen.  
“What – what’s up, Sherlock?” John asked.  
“I said excuse me.” Sherlock simply stated as he continued to walk away.   
“D’you ever reply?” John called after him.   
You took a large gulp of your drink, your face looking bitter. 

Sherlock had left to goto the Morgue with Molly and Mycroft. Something about Irene dying. You wasn’t too upset about this news, which disgusted you slightly.   
John’s phone rang. He picked it up insanely fast.   
“He’s on his way.” You heard Mycroft’s voice say.  
“Have you found anything?”  
“No. Did he take the cigarette?”  
“Yes.”  
“Shit...” He looked to Mrs Hudson. “He’s coming. Ten minutes.”  
“There’s nothing in the bedroom.”  
“Looks like he’s clean. We’ve tried all the usual places. Are you sure tonight’s a danger night?”  
“No, but then I never am. You have to stay with him, John.”   
“I’ve got plans.” John sighed.  
“No.”  
“Mycroft. M...” The line went dead. Chewing the inside of his mouth, he walked across to where Jeanette was sitting on the sofa and sat down beside her.  
“I am really sorry.”  
“You know, my friends are so wrong about you.” “Hmm?”   
“You’re a great boyfriend.”  
“Okay, that’s good. I mean, I always thought I was great.” You rolled your eyes at your brother, sipping more wine. Was it your third? Fifth? Who knew. “And Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man.” John groaned.  
“Jeanette, please.”  
“No, I mean it. It’s heart-warming. You’ll do anything for him – and he can’t even tell your girlfriends apart.” Jeanette said bitterly, as she put her shoes on. She got off the sofa and headed for the door. John jumped up and followed her as she put her coat on.   
“No, I’ll do anything for you. Just tell me what it is I’m not doing. Tell me!”  
“Don’t make me compete with Sherlock Holmes.”  
“I’ll walk your dog for you. Hey, I’ve said it now. I’ll even walk your dog ...”  
“I don’t have a dog!”  
“No, because that was ... the last one. Okay.” You cringed at your brother’s stupidity  
“Jesus!” The woman picked up her bag and stormed out.  
“I’ll call you.” He called after her.   
“No!”  
“Okay...” Exasperated, he turned back into the room as she ran down the stairs. Mrs Hudson looked at him sympathetically.  
“That really wasn’t very good, was it?”  
“It was quite funny, if I’m being honest.” You slurred as you smacked yourself brothers back, trying to comfort him, but your drunken haze had badly misjudged it.   
“That’s enough for you.” John said as he took tour glass from you.  
“Hey!” You said, reaching for the glass. John moved it away from you, and you sulked on the couch.

Shortly afterwards, John was in his chair reading as Sherlock came up the stairs and stopped in the doorway of the living room. John looked to him.  
“Oh, hi.” He said   
Sherlock stood there, his eyes roaming all around the living room.  
“You okay?”  
Sherlock continued to scan the room for a long moment, then turned and walked back to the kitchen door, heading for his bedroom.  
“Hope you didn’t mess up my sock index this time.”  
His bedroom door slammed shut. John put his book down and sighs heavily.

It had been a while, and everyone had left the apartment. You and Sherlock were the only ones home. John had gone out drinking with Lestrade and Molly. Mrs Hudson was probably sound asleep by now. And John’s girlfriend- ex girlfriend, well, she was irrelevant now. Once you were alone, you fixed yourself another glass of wine.  
You knocked on Sherlock’s door.   
“Go away.” Sherlock called. You ignored him and entered, still fuelled by the alcohol.   
“I thought I told you to go away.” You smiled.  
“Don’t you know I don’t listen?” Sherlock scoffed.  
“Evidentially.”  
“John’s gone out.” You said, sitting on his bed, sipping your drink.   
“Yes, I noticed.”  
“Drinking.” You said.  
“Yes, and you’re drunk.” He raised his eyebrows at you.  
“I am not!” You slurred, almost spilling your drink with the passion you claimed it with.  
“Oh, of course not. You’re just extremely uncoordinated and slurring your words for fun. My mistake.” You giggled as you stood and approached Sherlock. You wobbled and then you fell over. You closed your eyes, expecting to thud to the ground. Instead of the hard wooden floor, you felt something soft cushion your fall. You opened your eyes to see Sherlock’s soft eyes hovering above yours. You smiled at him.  
“Guess I’m falling for you.” He chuckled lightly.  
Sherlock gently pulled your jacket off of you.  
“Whaddareya doing?” You slurred.  
“Getting you ready for bed.”   
“But I’m not tired!” You drawled.  
“Yes, but you need to goto bed.” He said, removing your shoes and socks.   
“Wait-” he looked up at you again.   
“I haven’t given you your Christmas present.” You smiled. You slowly stood up and teetered to your room, returning with a small bag with three carefully wrapped presents inside. The two of you sat on the floor, cross legged, opposite each other.  
You handed him the first. He unwrapped it carefully.  
“You really didn’t have to...” he said, before pulling the gift free from the wrapping. It was a deerstalker.  
“You really didn’t have to.” Be frowned, causing you to giggle.   
“That was more a joke present.” You said. “The other two are more serious.” You said. He pulled the smallest present from the bag and unwrapped it. Inside was a portable magnifying glass.  
“Your old one looked like it was about to break, and I know you’re not too sentimental over it.”  
Sherlock smiled.  
“Very practical... I like it.” He concluded.   
“Now the last one.” You ushered.  
“Patience...” he said.   
He then pulled the final box from the bag. He weighed it in his palm.  
“It’s very heavy... probably-”  
“Don’t deduce, just open.” You urged him. He nodded and peeled back the silver paper. Inside was a black box. He opened it to reveal a beautiful silver pocket watch. He removed it from the box and turned it over in his hand. On the backside, engraved in fancy calligraphy was the word, Family. He smiled, popping it open. On the inside lid, opposite the clock, was the same photo of you, John, Sherlock and Mrs Hudson that you had in your necklace. He smiled genuinely, his face almost glowing.  
“It’s lovely...” you smiled.  
“I’m glad you like it, Mr. Holmes.” You replied. Sherlock placed the watch in his pocket and stood up. You reached into the bag and grabbed the only thing left in the bag. A tiny little sprig of leaves and a few white berries. Sherlock scooped you up.  
“It’s bedtime, Ms. Watson.” Sherlock murmured. You reached up and placed the plant above his head.  
“Mistletoe, Mr Holmes. You know what that means?” Sherlock smirked at your remark.  
“Well played.” He lowered his head to yours, and his lips pressed against yours. He gently placed you on the bed, still joint with your lips. You kissed him back hungrily. He then pulled back, and took the plant off of you, placing it back in the bag. He pressed you gently to get you to lie down, then he placed some blankets over you.   
“Sleep.” He smiled.  
“Stay with me?” You asked. He climbed into the other side of his bed, and wrapped his arms around you. He stroked your hair gently. His scent calmed you, and the tingling in your scalp sent you to sleep.   
“Merry Christmas, (Y/N).” Sherlock whispered.


	22. Happy New Year

When you woke, your head was spinning slightly still. You were, to say the least, hungover.   
Sherlock was standing at the window in the living room, playing a sad lament on his violin. John walked into the room just after you did. John sighed as he saw him. Mrs Hudson walked across to the table and picked up plates, looking at John pointedly as they both realised that Sherlock hasn't touched his breakfast. You rubbed your tired eyes. You were in the same clothes as you were wearing last night. You yawned.

"Can you... turn the violin... down." Your brain lagged. John hummed resignedly as he took his jacket from the back of the chair and put it on.   
"You look worse than me. And I drank a lot more than you." Your brother teased.   
"I wouldn't bet on that." Sherlock muttered as he stopped playing and picked up a pencil to make a notation on his music.  
"Should've known you wouldn't stop after I took that glass off you." He chuckled.  
"I'm no Harry though." You muttered   
"Lovely tune, Sherlock. Haven't heard that one before." Mrs Hudson smiled.  
"You composing?" John asked  
"Helps me to think." He turned back to the window, and lifted the violin and began to play the same tune again.  
"What are you thinking about?" You asked.  
Sherlock suddenly spun around and puts the violin down. He pointed at John's laptop.   
"The counter on your blog is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five." He said rapidly.  
"Yeah, it's faulty. Can't seem to fix it."  
Sherlock pulled a phone out of his pocket. It looked familiar to you. It was Adler's. You frowned.   
"Faulty – or you've been hacked and it's a message." He pulled up the security lock with its "I AM ---- LOCKED" screen.  
"Hmm?" John hummed.  
Sherlock typed "1895" into the phone. The phone beeped warningly and a message came up reading: "WRONG PASSCODE. 3 ATTEMPTS REMAINING". The enthusiasm in Sherlock's eyes died away again. "Just faulty." He sighed and turned away again, picking up his violin.  
"Right." John sighed. Sherlock began to play the sad tune once more.  
"Right. Well, I'm going out for a bit." Sherlock doesn't respond. John turned and walked to the kitchen where you stood and Mrs Hudson is tidying up.  
"Listen: has he ever had any kind of ..." He sighs. "girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?"  
You stood behind John and your eyes widened as you looked at your landlady. She sensed your panic.   
"I don't know."   
John sighed in frustration. "How can we not know?" "He's Sherlock. How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head?" John smiled sadly.  
"Right. See ya." He trotted off down the stairs. Mrs Hudson looked at Sherlock playing his violin at the window, then to you. She left the room, leaving you two alone. Sherlock kept playing. You rubbed your head and walked to your room, picking up some pain killers. You put two in your hand and walked to the kitchen to pour yourself some water. You gulped down the water and pills.  
Sherlock looked back at you, then when he caught your eye, he turned back to his violin.   
"Have I done something?" You asked. He didn't look at you.  
"You can't keep ignoring everyone Sherlock, for God's sake!" You snapped. He started playing his sad tune again. You sighed pure anger and upset running through you.  
"Fine. You just push me away like you do to everyone else, then. See where that leaves you. Poor old lonely Sherlock Holmes." You snapped as you stormed out of the apartment. Mrs Hudson stood around the bottom of the stairs, looking up to you with sad eyes.  
"Are you having a bit of a domestic, dearie?" You ignored her.   
"I'm going out." You said. "Don't know when I'll be back."

You slammed the door behind you.   
"(Y/N)?" A woman's voice called. You looked around to see. She was very pretty.   
"Can I help you?" You asked just as a black car pulled up to the curb. You sighed. "Let me guess, get in?" The woman nodded. You got in and sighed.   
"You know, Mycroft could just phone me, if he didn't have this bloody stupid power complex." You said to the woman, your annoyance dripping from each word.

The car pulled away. You were zooming through the streets of London until the buzz of the city was fading and the streets got less populated. You were being taken to the biggest power complex in the neighbourhood – the empty shell of Battersea Power Station. The car pulled up inside the building. You and the woman got out and she leads you through the abandoned structure.  
"Couldn't we just go to a café? Sherlock doesn't follow me everywhere." Still walking, the woman typed onto her phone, then stopped and gestures ahead of herself.  
"Through there." You shot the woman a dirty look, then walked on. 

You reached a large room and started to talk straight away even though you couldn't yet see anybody.  
"He's writing sad music; doesn't eat; barely talks – only to correct the television." You walked further into the room and finally a figure begun to step out of the shadows at the other end.  
"I'd say he was heartbroken but... well, he's Sherlock. He doesn't have a heart..." your bitterness trailed off as Irene Adler walked into your view. You wanted more than anything for this to be fake. That you weren't actually seeing a dead woman walking.   
"Hello, Ms. Watson." She stopped some distance away from you and you simply stared at her for several seconds before, finally finding some words. "Tell him you're alive." You said bluntly.  
Irene shook her head. "He'd come after me."  
"I'll come after you if you don't." You growled  
"Mmm, I believe you."  
"You were dead on a slab. It was definitely you." You said, raising your voice.   
"DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep."   
"And I bet you know the record-keeper."   
"I know what he likes, and I needed to disappear." "Then how come I can see you, and I don't even want to?" You scoffed.  
"Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safe-keeping and now I need it back, so I need your help."  
"No."  
"It's for his own safety."   
"So's this: tell him you're alive."   
"I can't."  
"Fine. I'll tell him, and I still won't help you." You was about to burst with anger. You turned and started to walk away. How dare she do this to Sherlock and then refuse to fix her mess. Although this woman would come between you and him, you would've rather seen him happy then like he was.  
"What do I say?"  
"What do you normally say? You've texted him a lot." The bitter jealousy rising again. Irene had taken her phone out and holds it up and you stopped and glared at her.  
"Just the usual stuff."  
"There is no 'usual' in this case." You snapped  
Irene looked down at her phone and started to read back messages she had sent to Sherlock.   
"'Good morning'; 'I like your funny hat'; 'I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner' ..." You frowned. You knew you wouldn't like this.  
"... 'You looked sexy on 'Crimewatch'. Let's have dinner'; 'I'm not hungry, let's have dinner'."  
You stared at her in disbelief.  
"You ... flirted with Sherlock Holmes?"   
Irene was still looking at her phone. "At him. He never replies."   
"No, Sherlock always replies – to everything. He's Mr. Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word." You stated angrily.   
"Does that make me special?"  
"... I don't know. Maybe." You said despite yourself.  
"Are you jealous?"  
"We're not a couple." You frowned  
"Yes you are. There ..."  
She held up her phone to show you the screen, although you're too far away to read it. She reads what she has typed anyway.   
"'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.'" The words stabbed at your stomach.  
Please don't answer. You mentally pleaded with Sherlock.   
She pressed the Send button. You turned away momentarily and then turned back to her.  
"Who ... who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but – for the record – if anyone out there still cares, I'm not in love with Sherlock Holmes." You lied.  
"Well, I am. Look at us both."  
You laughed ruefully. Just then an orgasmic female sigh can be heard a short distance away. Your face fell as you realised Sherlock had followed you. He'd heard what you had said. You placed your hand to your mouth. You turned to walk after him, to apologise, but Irene held her hand out to stop you.   
"I don't think so, do you?" You cocked your head, confused.

A while later you returned to the car that had taken you away and waited in silence for it to bring you home. You watched once more as the streets whizzed by your window. You hopped out, just as John climbed out of a cab next to you.   
"Where did you go?"  
"Out." You stared.  
The car drives away and the two of you walked to the door. You then stopped as you saw a handwritten note attached underneath the knocker. You and John exchanged an confused glance. Written on the note was: CRIME IN PROGRESS PLEASE DISTURB  
You pushed the door open and hurried inside.   
The pair of you hurried upstairs into the living room.  
"What's going on?" John demanded.   
He stopped at the sight of one of the CIA agents from Adler's house, bound and gagged with duct tape and sat on the chair near the fireplace. His nose was broken and blood had run down his face and dripped from his chin. Mrs Hudson was sitting on the sofa and Sherlock sat in a chair nearby, holding the agent's pistol aimed at him with one hand, and his phone to his ear with the other.  
"Jeez. What the hell is happening?" John sighed  
"Mrs Hudson's been attacked by an American. I'm restoring balance to the universe."  
You immediately hurried over to sit down next to her without looking at Sherlock.   
"Oh, Mrs Hudson, my God. Are you all right?" You placed your arm around her. "Jesus, what have they done to you?" You said sympathetically.  
Mrs Hudson began to break down in tears.  
Mrs Hudson covered her face with her hands  
"Oh, I'm just being so silly."   
"No, no." You mumbled assurance to her as you pulled her closer into your hug. Sherlock got to his feet, still holding the phone to his ear while aiming the gun.   
"Downstairs. Take her downstairs and look after her, John." John stood up and helped her to her feet.   
"All right, it's all right. I'll have a look at that."   
"I'm fine, I'm fine." Mrs Hudson said tearfully. As she walked out of the room, John stepped over to Sherlock, whose eyes are fixed on the American.   
"Are you gonna tell me what's going on?"  
"I expect so. Now go." They looked at each other for a moment, then turned their gazes to the agent, their faces almost murderous. John turned to leave the room but just before his head was completely turned away, a small smile began to form on his face as if he wanted the man to understand that he is about to encounter a whole world of hurt.  
"Lestrade. We've had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance." Sherlock said into the phone. He finally took his eyes off of his prisoner. He walked across to the table and laid the pistol down on it.   
"Oh, no-no-no-no-no, we're fine. No, it's the, uh, it's the burglar. He's got himself rather badly injured." You smirked, knowing what was about to happen. This was his way of an apology gift.   
"Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull ... suspected punctured lung." He looked over his shoulder at you with a slight smirk which you returned. "He fell out of a window."

Some time later, it was fully dark outside and an ambulance was only now pulling away from 221B. Sherlock and you were standing outside Speedy's café with Lestrade.   
"And exactly how many times did he fall out the window?"   
"It's all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector. I lost count." You chuckled quietly. Not bothering to comment, Lestrade walked away.   
You and Sherlock came in through the kitchen door of 221A and wiped your feet carefully on the doormat. Mrs Hudson and John were sitting at her small kitchen table and the wall clock showed 9.32 p.m. The landlady still looked very shaken.  
"She'll have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight. We need to look after her."  
"No." Mrs Hudson said pointedly   
"Of course, but she's fine." Sherlock said  
"No, she's not. Look at her." John said, gesturing at the old woman. Sherlock opened the fridge door and peered inside before picking something up.   
"She's got to take some time away from Baker Street. She can go and stay with her sister. Doctor's orders."   
Kicking the fridge door shut, Sherlock frowned at John and bites into a mince pie.  
"Don't be absurd."  
"She's in shock, for God's sake, and all over some bloody stupid camera phone." John snapped  
"Where is it, anyway?" You asked  
"Safest place I know." He said as he wiped crumbs from his mouth. He looked down at Mrs Hudson who reached down inside her top and pulled the phone out of her bra before handing it to Sherlock.  
"You left it in the pocket of your second-best dressing gown, you clot." She laughed briefly.  
"I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry."   
Sherlock tossed it into the air before putting it in his coat pocket. "Thank you." He looked at John. "Shame on you, John Watson."  
"Shame on me?!"  
"Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street?" He put a protective arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. "England would fall." He said sternly. She laughed lightly as she stroked his hand. He chuckled gently and John smiled at all of you.

It was New Year's Eve. John fixed himself a drink in the kitchen and then came into the living room as Sherlock took his coat off.   
"Where is it now?" He asked  
"Where no-one will look." He walked across to the window, picking up his violin. He turned his back to the room.  
"Whatever's on that phone is more than just pictures." You stated.  
"Yes, it is." He tinkered with his violin and checked its tuning. John watched him for a moment.  
"So, she's alive then. How are we feeling about that?" You pressed.  
In the distance, Big Ben began to toll the hour. Sherlock pulled in a sharp breath.  
"Happy New Year, Watsons."   
"Do you think you'll be seeing her again?" John asked. Sherlock turned around but not yet meeting anyone's eyes. He picked up his bow and flipped it in the air before starting to play "Auld Lang Syne" and looking at you pointedly. The traditional use of the song was to bid farewell to the old year at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve. By extension, it is also sung at funerals, graduations, and as a farewell or ending to other occasions. You smiled at the care he had put into that message.  
That'd be a no.  
John got the message and sat down in his chair as Sherlock turned back to the window and continues to play.

Months had passed with no mention of the Adler woman. You and Sherlock had still been having secret escapades of romance, unbeknownst to your brother. The calm was completely shattered one morning when Sherlock announced that you had a new client while stood by his bedroom door.  
"What, in your bedroom!?" John scoffed.  
You reached the room and peered inside, where Irene Adler lay in his bed, fast asleep. Your stomach dropped. 

Some time later Irene had changed into one of Sherlock's dressing gowns and was sitting in his chair in the living room. Again you felt your stomach acid boil uncomfortably.  
The boys were sitting at the table looking at her.   
"So who's after you?"   
"People who want to kill me."  
"Who's that?"  
"Killers."  
"It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific." You snapped.  
"Is she always like this?"   
"Just to our sister. Who she doesn't like." John hinted.  
"So you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them." Sherlock stated.  
"It worked for a while."  
"Except you let (y/n) know that you were alive, and therefore me."  
"I knew you'd keep my secret."  
"You couldn't."  
"But you did, didn't you? Where's my camera phone?"   
"It's not here. We're not stupid." John said.  
"Then what have you done with it? If they've guessed you've got it, they'll be watching you."  
"If they've been watching me, they'll know that I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago."  
"I need it."  
"Well, we can't just go and get it, can we?" John sighed. He looked to Sherlock, inspired.  
"Molly Hooper. She could collect it, take it to Bart's; then one of your homeless network could bring it here, leave it in the café, and one of the boys downstairs could bring it up the back."  
"Very good, John. Excellent plan, with intelligent precautions." Sherlock smiled.  
"Thank you." He picked up his phone. "So, why don't ... Oh, for ..." John trailed off as Sherlock pulled the phone from his jacket pocket. He held it up in the air. Sherlock looked at the phone closely as Irene stood up.  
"So what do you keep on here – in general, I mean?" Sherlock asked.  
"Pictures, information, anything I might find useful." "What, for blackmail?" You said bitterly.  
"For protection. I make my way in the world; I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be."  
"So how do you acquire this information?"  
"I told you – I misbehave."  
"But you've acquired something that's more danger than protection. Do you know what it is?" You said.  
"Yes, but I don't understand it."  
"I assumed. Show me." Irene held out her hand for the phone. Sherlock held it up out of her reach.  
"The passcode." She continued to hold her hand out, and eventually Sherlock sat forward and handed her the phone, activating it and holding it so he couldn't see the screen or the keypad, she typed in four characters. The phone beeps warningly.  
"It's not working."  
Sherlock stood up and took the phone from her  
"No, because it's a duplicate that I had made, into which you've just entered the numbers one oh five eight." He walked over to his chair in which she was just sitting and retrieved the real camera phone from under the cushion.  
"I assumed you'd choose something more specific than that but, um, thanks anyway." He pulled up the "I AM ---- LOCKED" screen and typed "1058" into the phone. He looked at her smugly but then the phone beeped warningly and a message comes up reading: "WRONG PASSCODE. 1 ATTEMPT REMAINING". He stared in disbelief.


	23. Flight Of The Dead

"I told you that camera phone was my life. I know when it's in my hand."  
"Oh, you're rather good." Sherlock smirked.  
"You're not so bad." She held her hand out again and took the phone from him. John frowned at the pair of them as they had intense eyesex for the next few seconds. You wanted to run out of the room and vomit.  
"Hamish." John said. Everyone turned to look at him.  
"John Hamish Watson – just if you were looking for baby names." You glared at your brother. Sherlock frowned in confusion.  
"There was a man – an MOD official. I knew what he liked." She walked a short distance away from the three of you so you can't see her screen or keypad, she typed in her real passcode and called up a photo.  
"One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn't know it, but I photographed it." She handed the phone to Sherlock. "He was a bit tied up at the time. It's a bit small on that screen – can you read it?" Sherlock sat down on the other side of the table to John and narrowed his eyes at the photograph. You stood behind him. The top of the email – possibly the subject line – read: 007 Confirmed allocation. Underneath in smaller print was a string of numbers: 4C12C45F13E13G60A60B61F34G34J60D12H33K34K  
"A code, obviously. I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it – though he was mostly upside down, as I recall. Couldn't figure it out." Sherlock leant forward, concentrating on the screen.  
"What can you do, Mr. Holmes?" She leant over his shoulder and you retreated away to the other side of the room.   
"Go on. Impress a girl." By the time she has leant in and kissed his cheek, he had already solved it. His eyes drifted momentarily in her direction as she pulled back smiling, but then he concentrates on the screen again. You wanted to cry in frustration.

"There's a margin for error but I'm pretty sure there's a Seven Forty-Seven leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it's going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true but give me a moment; I've only been on the case for eight seconds." He looked at John's blank face in front of him, then glanced at Irene who hadn't even fully straightened up yet.  
"Oh, come on. It's not code. These are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look: there's no letter 'I' because it can be mistaken for a '1'; no letters past 'K' – the width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place – families and couples sitting together. Only a Jumbo is wide enough to need the letter 'K' or rows past fifty-five, which is why there's always an upstairs. There's a row thirteen, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there's the style of the flight number – zero zero seven – that eliminates a few more; and assuming a British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the six thirty to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow Airport." By now he had stood up, and he lowered the phone to looks down at Irene, who gazed up at him in admiration.  
"Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing. John's expressed the same thought in every possible variant available to the English language."   
"I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice." The two of them stared at each other for a long moment before Sherlock spoke again.   
Sherlock had his eyes still locked on Irene's.  
"John, please can you check those flight schedules; see if I'm right?"   
"Uh-huh. I'm on it, yeah." He said vaguely, almost overcome by the obvious tension in the room, he started to type on his laptop. Sherlock and Irene continued to stare at each other. "I've never begged for mercy in my life." The words stabbed you. He was rising to her taunts.   
"Twice."   
You cleared your throat and Sherlock looked away from Irene and to your face, then quickly away.  
"Uh, yeah, you're right. Uh, flight double oh seven."  
"What did you say?"  
"You're right."   
"No, no, no, after that. What did you say after that?" You repeated, catching on.  
"Double oh seven. Flight double oh seven."   
"Double oh seven, double oh seven, double oh seven, double oh seven ..."  
Pushing Irene out of the way, he began to pace. "... something ... something connected to double oh seven ... What?" As he continued to pace and mutter the numbers to himself. "Double oh seven, double oh seven, what, what, something, what?"  
"Sherlock, 'Bond Air is go.'" You repeated what Mycroft had said. 

Irene apparently would be staying with you for longer. You walked to your room in a strop, annoyed and hurt by the constant flirting Irene was firing at Sherlock. You let yourself slide down to the floor with your back to the door. You raised your knees to your chest and placed your hands on the back of your bowed head. You analysed yourself.   
You had placed yourself into foetal position, one of the most comfortable and familiar positions to the human, as they remain in the position for the last two trimesters of pregnancy, people tend to resort to this position when looking for comfort. You immediately snapped out of it.  
No. I don't need comfort. I'm fine. I'm not jealous. You snapped to yourself, you stood up and shook off your limbs. You still felt your stomach reach the ground. A gentle knock came to your door.   
"What?" You snapped, your aggressiveness accidentally seeping through to your voice. Irene stood at your door. You sighed irritably when you saw her and then turned away to your bookshelf.   
"Why don't you like me?" She asked as she plopped herself down onto the chair by your vanity.   
"Excuse me?" You cocked an eyebrow.  
"You're just like him. I'm interested in you too, but you refuse to even be in the same vicinity as me."  
You turned around to look at her. You knew she was right, but it wasn't a conscious decision.   
"I don't know what you mean."  
"Oh come on, someone as clever as you leaving things to the subconscious? I don't believe that for a second." You sighed in irritation. "I thought you said you didn't love him."   
"Is that what you think this is about?" You scoffed.   
"I know exactly that it's what this is about. I was flirting with him and looking at your responses. You love him, Ms. Watson. So why do you keep denying it?"  
"Because he cant feel the same way. He doesn't know how." The words slipped out quicker than you could think them. You smacked your hand over your mouth as if you were shoving the words back inside, but it was too late. They were hanging in the air awkwardly.   
"And your brother?"  
"What about him?"   
"Does he know?"  
"No." You tried to swallow the lump in your throat.   
"He's protective." She nodded.   
"Yes. He just doesn't want to see me hurt."  
"And Sherlock would hurt you?"  
"Work is his priority. Anything else is disposable." You are disposable to him. An angry voice echoed through your brain.  
"Are you sure? The way he looks at you..." she smirked.  
"I've only ever seen anyone look at someone like that when they're special."  
"I may be special, but his work keeps him sane. I can't do for him what his work does."  
"So you're worried you're not good enough?" Your eyes began to water.  
"I don't love him! Please just..." you turned away from her, your hands trembling. She stood up and you heard the door close once more. When you turned back, she was gone. You let everything go. All the tears that had built up, all the rage, the hurt. You got into bed, snivelling and sobbing. You pulled the covers over your head and willed the world to go away.

When you opened your eyes, you were in your mind palace, surrounded by white walls and long halls of books. You sat in your usual spot. A brown leather couch like the one you had in your family home. A fireplace roared on your right. In your mind you could still hear Mycroft's phone call.  
"Bond Air is go, that's decided. Check with the Coventry lot."   
Coventry?  
Your eyes flew open and you jumped out of bed, running into the living room.  
"Coventry!" You exclaimed, causing Sherlock to look up at you. He was sat in his armchair fiddling with his violin.  
"Check with the Coventry lot." He repeated.   
"I've never been. Is it nice?" Irene said  
"Where's John?"  
"He went out a couple of hours ago."  
"I was just talking to him."  
"He said you do that." Irene smiled. "What's Coventry got to do with anything?"  
"It's a story, probably not true. In the Second World War, the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they'd broken the German code but they didn't want the Germans to know that they'd broken the code, so they let it happen anyway." Sherlock beamed at you. "Brilliant!" He then studied your face. "You've been crying." He cocked his head like a golden retriever. "Why were you crying?"  
"Have you ever had anyone?" Irene interrupted. Sherlock frowned at her blankly. You glared at her too.   
"Sorry?"   
"And when I say "had", I'm being indelicate."  
"I don't understand."   
"Well, I'll be delicate then." She got up from the chair and walked over and knelt in front of Sherlock, putting her left hand on top of his right hand and curling her fingers around it. This action itself brought back your feelings you had tried to subside.   
"Let's have dinner."  
"Why?"  
"Might be hungry."  
"I'm not."  
"Good." Hesitantly, Sherlock say forward a little and slowly turns his right hand over, curling his own fingers around her wrist. "Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn't hungry? I'd appreciate if you stopped upsetting (y/n)." He said with a scowl.  
Slowly Irene began to lean forward, her gaze fixed on his lips.   
"Oh, Mr. Holmes ... if it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?"  
"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson called up the stairs. Sherlock's eyes slid towards the door.   
"Too late."  
"That's not the end of the world; that's Mrs Hudson." You stated blankly, trying to tune out Irene's attempts to get you to admit there was anything more between you and Sherlock.  
Irene pulled her hand free and stood up, walking away from him as Mrs Hudson came in with none other than the man who took you to the Palace. You had learnt his name was Plummer.  
"Sherlock, this man was at the door. Is the bell still not working?" She turned around to Plummer and pointed at Sherlock. "He shot it." She informed him. "Have you come to take us away again?"   
"Yes, Mr. Holmes."  
"Well, we decline."  
"Do we?" You shot back.  
Plummer took an envelope from his jacket and offered it to him. "I don't think you do."   
Sherlock snatched it from him and opened it. Inside was two Business Class boarding passes for Flyaway Airways in the name of Sherlock Holmes and (y/n) Watson for flight number 007 to Baltimore, scheduled to leave at 18.30.  
Sherlock put his coat on.  
"We're going to Baltimore it seems, (y/n). Get your coat on."   
You quickly took your coat from the rack and wrapped it around yourself. You glared at Irene one final time before following Sherlock out of the apartment. You climbed into the back of the black car, next to Sherlock. As Plummer got into the passenger seat and the car drove away, Irene stood at the window of the flat and watched you go.

In the car, Sherlock got out the plane ticket again, then recited what he had deduced.   
"There's going to be a bomb on a passenger jet. The British and American governments know about it but rather than expose the source of that information they're going to let it happen. The plane will blow up. Coventry all over again. The wheel turns. Nothing is ever new." Neither Plummer nor the driver responded to him in any way. You just blinked at him.  
"And we're going to be on that plane?"   
"Apparently so."

Some time later the car arrived at Heathrow Airport and was driven past hangars to a 747 Jumbo Jet parked on the tarmac. The car stopped near the plane and you both climbed out and walked over to the steps which lead up to the entry door. A familiar figure is standing at the bottom of the steps. It's the American.   
"Well, you're lookin' all better. How ya feelin'?" Sherlock said nonchalantly, in a deliberately fake American accent.  
"Like putting a bullet in your brain ... sir." Sherlock let out a quiet snigger and starts to walk up the steps.   
"They'd pin a medal on me if I did ..." Sherlock stopped.  
"... sir." The American said insincerely.  
Sherlock half-turned back towards him, then decided he couldn't be bothered and continued up the steps. 

When you reached the inside, he pulled back the curtain obscuring the passenger seating and walked into the aisle. The lighting was very low and it was hard to see. There were people sitting in almost all the seats but oddly none of them were moving or speaking, or showing any signs of life at all rather. You frowned and walked forward to look more closely at the nearest passengers. An overhead light showed more clearly the faces of two men sitting beside each other and you had a grim realisation- they were dead. Although they were not yet showing any signs of decomposition, their skin was very grey and they had clearly been dead for some time.   
Sherlock turned and looked to the passengers on the other side of the aisle, turning on another overhead light to get a better view. As he straightened up, you realised that everyone on board the plane must be in the same condition.  
Mycroft appeared from the other end of the section.   
"The Coventry conundrum." Sherlock turned as his brother pushed back the curtain and stepped through into the cabin. For the first part of the conversation he spoke softly, almost as if out of respect for the dead bodies in front of him.  
"What do you think of my solution?"  
You gazed around the cabin, still taking it all in.   
"The flight of the dead."  
"The plane blows up mid-air. Mission accomplished for the terrorists. Hundreds of casualties, but nobody dies." You murmured.  
"Neat, don't you think?" Sherlock smiled humourlessly. "You've been stumbling round the fringes of this one for ages – or were you too bored to notice the pattern?"  
"We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back, though I believe one of our passengers didn't make the flight." You flashed back to the car with the body in the boot and the passport stamped in Berlin airport. "But that's the deceased for you – late, in every sense of the word."  
"How's the plane going to fly?" He answered himself immediately. "Of course: unmanned aircraft. Hardly new."  
"It doesn't fly. It will never fly. This entire project is cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can't fool them now. We've lost everything. One fragment of one email, and months and years of planning finished." "Your MOD man."   
"That's all it takes: one lonely naïve man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special."  
"Hmm. You should screen your defence people more carefully." The younger Holmes quirked an eyebrow.  
"I'm not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock; I'm talking about you." The eldest Holmes was fuming. Sherlock frowned, genuinely confused. You scoffed and shook your head in disappointment.  
"The damsel in distress." He smiled ironically. "In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook: the promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption; then give him a puzzle ..." his voice dropped to a whisper "... and watch him dance."   
"Don't be absurd."  
"Absurd?" Your voice cracked. "Absurd." You repeated, controlling your emotions. "How quickly did you decipher that email for her? Was it the full minute, or were you really eager to impress?" You cut in, anger and hurt glaring up once more. Sherlock frowned at you.   
"I think it was less than five seconds." Irene's voice called out from behind you.   
"Of course you're here." You scoffed again without turning to see her. Sherlock spun around to see her standing at the end of the cabin, dressed beautifully, fully made up and with her hair perfectly coiffured. The Woman at her immaculate best.   
"I drove you into her path." Mycroft ruefully said to Sherlock. He pauses momentarily. "I'm sorry." He lowered his eyes. "I didn't know." Sherlock was still looking at Irene as she walked towards him.   
"Mr. Holmes, I think we need to talk."  
"So do I. There are a number of aspects I'm still not quite clear on."   
"She isn't talking about you." You wanted to rip your hair out in anger. You shook your head at him, completely hopeless in this situation.  
"It's like she said. Not you, Junior. You're done now." She continued down the aisle towards Mycroft. Sherlock turned and watched her go as she activated her phone and held it up to show his brother.  
"There's more ... loads more. On this phone I've got secrets, pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me – unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother." Mycroft could no longer hold her gaze and turned his head away, lowering his eyes.

"I think we should all go back to my place to talk about this. You never know who could... overhear something they're not supposed to..." Mycroft mumbled as he began to leave the plane with Irene behind him. Sherlock sighed in response, but began to follow. You stayed still, looking around you. Sherlock looked at you with a confused expression.  
"Are you coming, (y/n)?" He asked. You took a deep breath and closed your eyes.  
"(Y/N)?" He repeated.  
"No."  
"No?" His tone was questioning you.  
"No." You opened your eyes. "Go without me, Sherlock. I'm done. I can only take so much, and I've had enough." You snapped, pushing past him and beginning to walk away. Irene slid out of your way away to avoid your shove. Mycroft stood in your way.   
"Move." You commanded, an angry snarl in his face.  
He moved his arm to the side as he stepped away to let you past. 

You stomped down the stairs and then onto the tarmac. You looked to the black car.   
"Are you taking me home or do I have to get a taxi?" The driver looked at Plummer and shrugged.  
"(Y/N)!" Sherlock called after you.  
"Taxi it is then." You muttered under your breath, you began to stride away quickly. You hoped you could avoid this inevitable confrontation.   
"(Y/N)!" Sherlock called again, quickly gaining on you.   
Damn his long legs! You thought.  
He put his hand on your shoulder to stop you. You spun around on your heel and shoved his hand off of you.  
"Don't touch me." You hissed. He stumbled back slightly, blinking at you with wide eyes.   
"What did I do?"  
"What haven't you done, Sherlock. That's probably the more fitting question." You snapped back in a hushed tone.   
"(Y/N)... I don't..."   
"Understand? You never have, Sherlock. You say you care for me but then you never show it Sherlock. How can you expect me to trust you when you lie to me constantly?"  
With that Sherlock took a leap, he grabbed you and kissed you deeply. Your brain stopped for a moment. You came to your senses when his lips parted from yours after a while. You blinked rapidly and instinctively slapped him across the face. Tears threatened to spill from your eyes once more.   
"I can't do this Sherlock. Not again." He just looked at you blankly, then leant in again. You pushed him away.   
"Don't. Please. Just don't." You turned away.   
"Sherlock, are you coming?" You heard Irene call.   
"You're going to be very happy together." You said spitefully. "Goodbye, Sherlock." 

You ran to the front of the airport, rather ungracefully, but you couldn't help that Sherlock was chasing you. You were slightly faster at full speed. There was a taxi waiting at the entrance. You climbed in quickly.   
"221B Baker Street." You asked. You pulled away from the curb just as Sherlock arrived. You didn't want to look but you knew he was standing in the road, watching you go.


	24. The Return

You were relived when you arrived to the flat to discover John wasn't home. You weren't in the mood for explaining anything. You once again shoved necessities into your suitcase, stuff you might need urgently. Phone charger, some books, clothes. You looked at the photos by your bed. You had the old family photo and a photo of everyone who inhabited the little flat you had called home. Not anymore.   
If home is where the heart if, could you call anywhere home when your heart felt this absent?  
You placed the photo of your mother and family into your case delicately. Whilst you slammed the other photo face down on your dresser, not wanting to see his judging face anymore. You wrote John a quick note.

John   
Call me when you can and I'll explain. I just can't stay here any longer.  
(Y/N)  
Xxx

With that you lugged the heavy suitcase out of the room and down the stairs.   
Your rational side was telling you you were being childish. This was the second time you had "run away." But your emotions were driving you. You slammed the door to the flat and got back inside your taxi.  
"Nearest hotel, please." You directed the cabbie.

The hotel wasn't exactly the best, but it would do for now. You lay on the bed and turned on the tv. Some shitty romance story was playing. You immediately switched it off. It's never as simple as the movies made it out to be. You sighed and went to the mini fridge. Inside was a small bottle of wine. You poured it into a glass and sat by the window, slowly sipping it. Your phone rang, and you waited a moment before picking it up.   
"Hello, (y/n)? What's going on? Why's Sherlock acting like someone died?" Your brother asked.   
You sighed sadly.  
"Go outside. I want to speak to you alone."  
"Uh ok...?" His tone was confused. You heard him mutter something inaudible and the heard him jog down the stairs- one set of feet- Sherlock didn't follow. You heard the familiar clunk of the big black door of 221B closing.  
"Alright, what's up?"  
"Something happened between us and I don't think I can stay with you both anymore so I'm going to move out."  
"Did he hurt you?"  
"John-"  
"Did he?" Your brother insisted angrily.  
"No! He didn't hurt me John." You sighed. At least not physically. "It's just I can't deal with him anymore. You saw how he was with... Moriarty." Even saying his name made you shudder. "He enjoyed it. He didn't care about the people that could die, all he cared about was solving it to show he could. To him caring is just a card in a loosing deck. I can't keep trying with him just to get it thrown back in my face. It hurts." You began to cry softly. You cupped the bottom of your phone in your hand. "I'm sorry John I know it's stupid..."  
"No, it's not." Your brother sighed. "I get it. But you can't go back to Scotland. Not after what happened last time."  
"I wasn't going to. I'm in a hotel at the moment. I've got enough for a month or so but I'll need to find a job and a more permanent place."  
"I'll help you out."  
"No, John. It's fine honestly. I'll be sending some movers over when I can to get my stuff."  
"Can't you talk to him? I don't know what happened but, he seems upset, (y/n). He might be sorry."  
"John, not now. I can't."  
"He figured out Irene, if you wanted to know."  
"Wow really? That's surprising."  
"Said something like 'Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.' And you should 'never let your heart rule over your head'. Sounds like an angsty teen going through a breakup." Those words brought your heart back from the bottom of a pit just to get stabbed over and over again.  
"I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage ... Thank you for the final proof." Sherlock's voice echoed in your head.   
"Hang on, Mycroft's here. Let me speak to him. I'll mute you."  
"No- let me listen."  
"Ok..." you muted your microphone and put your phone on the table as you settled on the couch, tears still falling.  
"You don't smoke." You heard your brother say.  
"I also don't frequent cafés." The eldest Holmes' voice echoed.   
"This the file on Irene Adler?"  
"Closed forever. I am about to go and inform my brother – or, if you prefer, you are – that she somehow got herself into a witness protection scheme in America. New name, new identity. She will survive – and thrive – but he will never see her again."   
"Why would he care? He despised her at the end. Won't even mention her by name – just 'The Woman'."  
"Is that loathing, or a salute? One of a kind; the one woman who matters." You flinched as his words slapped you.   
"He's not like that. He doesn't feel things that way ... I don't think."  
"My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?"  
"I don't know."  
"Neither do I ... but initially he wanted to be a pirate."  
"He'll be okay with this witness protection, never seeing her again. He'll be fine."  
"I agree." Mycroft breathed in sharply. "That's why I decided to tell him that."  
"Instead of what?"  
"She's dead. She was captured by a terrorist cell in Karachi and beheaded."  
There's a small silence, then John quietly cleared his throat.  
"It's definitely her? She's done this before."  
"I was thorough – this time. It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me, and I don't think he was on hand, do you?"   
"So...what should we tell Sherlock?"   
You hang up. It's too much for you. You could feel your heart break all over again. You sobbed for hours. 

It had been months since you left Baker Street, but you had never had the guts to send the moving van like you promised. You couldn't even walk nearby, let alone return to get it yourself. You had found a tiny bedsit near Covent Garden. It was damp and dull but it was the best you could do with the cafe work you had been doing. You had read the books you brought with you at least 15 times each. The only mental stimulation you got was deducing the customers, although you disliked doing it because it reminded you of him.   
To put it bluntly, you were depressed. John had tried to call you but you couldn't bring yourself to answer, unless with a brief text.   
'I'm fine can't talk right now, at work.' was such a frequent response that your phone's autocorrect suggested it when you typed the first two words of the sentence. He probably didn't believe you but never pressed the issue. 

You got out of the single bed in your room and padded to the bathroom, getting what you'd need for work. It didn't take long to get ready, and you climbed into a cab and gave the address of your work.

The café you worked at didn't have many customers, usually just old couples who used to visit in when the café was good years ago, and for some reason still insist it is the best place to eat. You unlocked the door and began to open up the café. You turned on the coffee machine and made yourself a latte. You found that the best cure for a broken heart was lots of coffee. If you were high enough on caffeine you could whizz the days away. It worked as a fast forward button. 

Before you knew it, it was your lunch.  
"I'm going on break, Katie." You said to your younger colleague. "You ok to deal with the next few?" She nodded and took the till over. You pulled on your coat and stepped outside. You pulled out your cigarettes and lit one.   
"I thought you stopped smoking." The voice sent you reeling. You spun around to see the one thing you were trying to avoid. Sherlock stood there, his pale skin glistening in the afternoon sun. His eyes just as sharp and striking as you remembered.   
"Yeah, well months of stress will make you turn back to old habits." You said bitterly. "Now if you don't mind, I've got to get back to work."  
"No you don't, you've just got on your break."  
You sighed.  
"Sherlock, I told you I don't want to see you again."  
"I know. But I need your help."  
"You don't need anyone's help. You never have."  
"I need your help now, (y/n). With a case. John's waiting in the taxi. We won't be left alone. I promise."  
You took a long drag of your cigarette, thoughtfully. "What's the case."  
Somehow you had ditched work for the man who had broken your heart, and you had spent months trying to get over him; and you were now on your way to Dartmoor with him and your brother who also happened to be his best friend. John was practically beaming when you entered the cab.   
"I knew you'd come, (y/n)." He said as you climbed in.   
"Yeah, well I missed you." You didn't make eye contact with Sherlock for the entire journey.

The three of you sat in a black jeep. Sherlock was driving and John sat in the front. You sat alone in the back. Every now and then you could see Sherlock look in the rearview mirror at you. You never looked at him. You were smoothly sailing over scenic hills and fields. You sighed and placed your head against the cold glass.

You could feel the coffee still in your system but it was dying down. John and Sherlock were aimlessly bickering over map directions as you lit another cigarette. You inhaled slowly, then released the cloud of smoke into the cold air.   
John stood at the foot of a large stone crop, consulting the map once more. He pointed ahead of himself at a large array of buildings in the distance. "There's Baskerville." He turned and points behind himself. Sherlock turned to look.  
"That's Grimpen Village." He turned and looked ahead again, checking the map for the name of the heavily wooded area to the left of the Baskerville complex.  
"So that must be ... yeah, it's Dewer's Hollow." Sherlock pointed to an area in between the complex and the Hollow.  
"What's that?"  
"Hmm?" Your brother had dorky looking binoculars around his neck. He lifted them and looked more closely at the fencing and the warning signs.  
"Minefield? Technically Baskerville's an army base, so I guess they've always been keen to keep people out."  
"Clearly." Sherlock muttered.

You drove into Grimpen Village and Sherlock pulled the into the car park of the Cross Keys inn. You got out and walked towards the entrance of the pub, where a young man who was apparently a tour guide was talking to a group of tourists.  
"Three times a day, tell your friends. Tell anyone!" You walked past the group and see that next to the guide was standing next to a large sign on which was painted a black image of a wolf-like creature with the words "BEWARE THE HOUND!" above it.  
"Don't be strangers, and remember ... stay away from the moor at night if you value your lives!" He called. Sherlock pulled his overcoat around him as he walked towards the pub, and then he popped the collar. John looked at him pointedly.  
"I'm cold." He said, trying to look nonchalant and failing miserably. The tourist group walks away from the guide. Once their backs were turned he put on a large shaggy wolf's-head mask. Sherlock and John walked into the pub followed shortly by you, which had a blackboard outside advertising "Boutique Rooms & Vegetarian Cuisine". You watched as the tour guide ran over to a couple of the nearby tourists and roars. They flinched and a woman shrieked in surprise. You let out a small chuckle.  
As Sherlock prowled around the pub, John and you stood at the bar checking in. The manager and barman, Gary, handed you some keys.  
"So that's a single for you." He then turned to John.  
"And a room with two singles."  
"There you go." John said. giving him some money for the drink he has just bought.  
"Oh, ta. I'll just get your change." Gary said, turning around. As Gary went to the till, your glance fell on a pile of receipts and invoices which had been punched onto a spike on the bar. You frowned as you saw that one was labelled "Undershaw Meat Supplies". Quickly you reached out and ripped it from the spike, putting it into your pocket as Gary comes back with the change.  
"There you go."  
"I couldn't help noticing on the map of the moor: a skull and crossbones." You mentioned  
"Oh that, aye." Gary nodded  
"Pirates?!" John said.  
"Eh, no, no. The Great Grimpen Minefield, they call it."   
"Oh, right." John sighed.  
"It's not what you think. It's the Baskerville testing site. It's been going for eighty-odd years. I'm not sure anyone really knows what's there any more."   
Nearby, Sherlock was still prowling around and now seemed to find something of interest at one of the tables.  
"Explosives?" You asked.  
"Oh, not just explosives. Break into that place and – if you're lucky – you just get blown up, so they say ... in case you're planning on a nice wee stroll."   
Sherlock seemed to loose interest in the table and wanders off again.  
"Ta. I'll remember." John responded.  
"Aye. No, it buggers up tourism a bit, so thank God for the demon hound!" The bartender chuckled. "Did you see that show, that documentary?"   
"Quite recently, yeah." Your brother confirmed.  
"Aye. God bless Henry Knight and his monster from hell."  
"Ever seen it – the hound?" You asked.  
"Me? No." He pointed out the door past Sherlock, where the tour guide was just outside the pub and talking on his phone to someone.  
"Fletcher has. He runs the walks – the Monster Walks for the tourists, you know? He's seen it." "That's handy for trade." You said. Gary turned to a man who was clearly the inn's cook who had just arrived behind the bar. Meanwhile Sherlock turned and followed Fletcher as he walked away from the doorway.  
"I'm just saying we've been rushed off our feet, Billy."   
"Yeah. Lots of monster-hunters. Doesn't take much these days. One mention on Twitter and oomph." Billy looked at Gary. "We're out of WKD." He stated.  
"All right." He walked behind the bar again. Billy turned to you and John.   
"What with the monster and that ruddy prison, I don't know how we sleep nights. Do you, Gary?" Gary stopped and put a hand on his shoulder and looked at him affectionately.  
"Like a baby."  
"That's not true." He looked at John. "He's a snorer." "Hey, wheesht!" Gary said, clearly embarrassed, trying to shut him up.  
"Is yours a snorer?" Billy looked at John then to Sherlock. You laughed lightly.  
"... Got any crisps?" He deflects. 

Outside, Sherlock swiped a half-drunk pint of beer from a nearby empty table and walked over towards Fletcher, noticing as he did so that he had a copy of the Racing Post in his trouser pocket. Fletcher had gone over to another of the tables and was just finishing his phone call. You stepped out on the inn to watch.   
"Yeah ... No. All right? Right. Take care. Bye."  
"Mind if I join you?" Sherlock asked.  
Fletcher shrugged and gestured to the table. Sherlock put his stolen pint down and sat on the bench on the other side of the table.  
"It's not true, is it? You haven't actually seen this ... hound thing." He grinned in a friendly way.  
"You from the papers?" Fletcher looked at him suspiciously.  
"No, nothing like that. Just curious. Have you seen it?"  
"Maybe."  
"Got any proof?"  
"Why would I tell you if I did? 'Scuse me." He stood up to leave just as you and John came over with your own drinks.  
"I called Henry ..." John began.   
"Bet's off, John, sorry." Sherlock spoke over your brother.  
John sat down "What?" He asked.  
"Bet?" Fletcher said.  
"My plan needs darkness." Sherlock looked to his watch then at the sky. "Reckon we've got another half an hour of light ..."  
"Wait, wait. What bet?" The guide insisted   
"Oh, I bet John here fifty quid that you couldn't prove you'd seen the hound."  
"Yeah, the guys in the pub said you could." John caught on immediately and looked to Fletcher.  
Fletcher smiled and pointed to Sherlock.   
"Well, you're gonna lose your money, mate."   
"Yeah?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  
"Yeah. I've seen it. Only about a month ago, up at the Hollow. It was foggy, mind – couldn't make much out." The guide recalled.  
"I see. No witnesses, I suppose?"  
"No, but ..."  
"Never are." Sherlock tutted in disappointment. "Wait ..." He pulled out his phone and showed Sherlock a photograph. "There." He pointed.  
The three of you looked at the photograph carefully. It showed a dark-furred four-legged something in the distance but, with no scale amongst the surrounding vegetation, it was impossible to tell the size – or even the species – of the animal. Sherlock snorted.   
"Is that it? It's not exactly proof, is it?" Fletcher showed the photo to John again to try and sway him. "Sorry, John. I win." Sherlock picked up the stolen drink and makes as if to drink from it, although he never did.  
"Wait, wait. That's not all. People don't like going up there, you know – to the Hollow. Gives them a ... bad sort of feeling."  
"Ooh! Is it haunted? Is that supposed to convince me?" He said sarcastically as he put the pint glass down again.  
"Nah, don't be stupid, nothing like that, but I reckon there is something out there – something from Baskerville, escaped."  
"A clone, a super-dog?" Sherlock said, not really trying to hold back his sceptical snigger.  
"Maybe. God knows what they've been spraying on us all these years, or putting in the water. I wouldn't trust 'em as far as I could spit."  
Sherlock nodded to the phone photograph. "Is that the best you've got?"  
Fletcher hesitated for a long moment, uncertain whether to continue, but eventually he spoke reluctantly, lowering his voice.  
"I had a mate once who worked for the MOD. One weekend we were meant to go fishin' but he never showed up – well, not 'til late. When he did, he was white as a sheet. I can see him now. "I've seen things today, Fletch," he said, "that I never wanna see again. Terrible things." He'd been sent to some secret Army place – Porton Down, maybe, maybe Baskerville, or somewhere else." He leant closer.   
"In the labs there – the really secret labs, he said he'd seen ... terrible things. Rats as big as dogs, he said, and dogs ..." He reached into his bag and pulled something out, showingr it to the three of you.   
"... dogs the size of horses." He was holding a concrete cast of a dog's paw print – but the print was at least six inches long from the tip of the claws to the back of the pad. Sherlock stared at it in surprise. John immediately pounced.  
"Er, we did say fifty?" He smirked


	25. Baskerville and Bluebell

The three of you took the car to Baskerville, Sherlock still driving. As you approached the complex, you observed the many military personnel guarding the place, walking the perimeter etc. Sherlock drove up to the gates and a military security guard holding a rifle raised a hand. As Sherlock stopped the jeep, the man walked around to the driver’s window.   
“Pass, please.” Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and handed him a pass.  
“Thank you.” He walked away with the pass. At the front of the vehicle, another security man encouraged a sniffer dog to check the jeep, presumably for explosives.  
“You’ve got ID for Baskerville. How?” John said quietly.  
“It’s not specific to this place. It’s my brother’s. Access all areas. I, um ...” he cleared his throat quietly. “... acquired it ages ago, just in case.”   
The security guard swiped Sherlock’s pass through a reader at the gate room. The screen showed a fairly small photograph of Mycroft and names the card holder as Mycroft Holmes, giving him Unlimited Access and showing his security status as ‘Secure (No Threat)’.   
“Brilliant!” John exclaimed sarcastically.   
“What’s the matter?”  
“We’ll get caught.”  
“No we won’t – well, not just yet.” Sherlock looked at you. You just moodily stared at the window.  
“Caught in five minutes. “Oh, hi, we just thought we’d come and have a wander round your top secret weapons base.” “Really? Great! Come in – kettle’s just boiled.” That’s if we don’t get shot.” John mumbled grumpily. The gates began to slide open as the security guard came back over to the car.   
“Clear.” The man with the dog stated.  
“Thank you very much, sir.” The guard handed Sherlock his pass.  
“Thank you.” Sherlock looked at John with a ‘told you so’ look. He put the car in gear and eased the vehicle forward.   
“Straight through, sir.” The guard stated.  
“Mycroft’s name literally opens doors!” You mumbled.  
“I’ve told you – he practically is the British government. I reckon we’ve got about twenty minutes before they realise something’s wrong.” Sherlock drove up to the main complex at Baskerville, parked the car and the three of you got out. Another soldier lead you through barriers and towards an entrance to the main building. As you walk, Sherlock looked around at all the military men patrolling the area, many of them armed. Even the scientists in lab coats were being escorted. As you approached the entrance, a military jeep pulled up and a young corporal got out.   
“What is it? Are we in trouble?” The corporal asked.  
“‘Are we in trouble, sir.’” Sherlock corrected sternly.  
“Yes, sir, sorry, sir.” Nevertheless, he stepped in front of you and held out his hands to prevent you getting nearer to the entrance.  
“You were expecting us?” Sherlock asked.  
“Your ID showed up straight away, Mr. Holmes. Corporal Lyons, security. Is there something wrong, sir?”  
“Well, I hope not, Corporal, I hope not.”   
“It’s just we don’t get inspected here, you see, sir. It just doesn’t happen.”  
“Ever heard of a spot check?” He took a small wallet from his pocket and showed the ID inside to the corporal.   
“Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” Even before he finished speaking, the corporal came to attention and saluted. John crisply returned the salute.  
“Sir. Major Barrymore won’t be pleased, sir. He’ll want to see you both.”  
“I’m afraid we won’t have time for that. We’ll need the full tour right away. Carry on.” The corporal hesitated, looking at you.   
“That’s an order, Corporal.” John said instantly.   
“Yes, sir.” He spun around and walked towards the entrance. Sherlock glanced across to John with a proud smile on his face as you followed.   
“We’re going to have to get you an ID...” Sherlock mumbled to you.   
At the entrance, which was marked “AUTOMATIC SECURITY DOOR”, Lyons swiped his pass through a reader, then waited for Sherlock to walk over and do the same with his own pass. The message “ACCESS GRANTED” appeared on the reader. Lyons then pressed a button and the locks on the door disengaged. Sherlock checked his watch.

The door swung open and Lyons leads the group   
inside, taking off his beret as he did. As he led you towards the next security door, the boys talked quietly while you stayed silent.  
“Nice touch.”  
“Haven’t pulled rank in ages.” John smiled.  
“Enjoy it?”   
“Oh yeah.” John chuckled quietly. Reaching the door, Lyons swiped his pass and then steps aside for Sherlock to do likewise. As he does so and another “ACCESS GRANTED” message appeared. The doors slid opens to reveal an elevator on the other side. Lyons lead you inside and you looked at the wall panel. The lift, now on the ground floor, only went downwards to five floors marked -1, -2, -3, -4 and B. Lyons pressed the -1 button and the doors close, opening shortly afterwards on the next floor down. Lyons lead you out into a brightly lit and white tiled laboratory. As you walked forward, various scientific staff dressed either in white coveralls including full breathing masks, or lab coats and face masks walked around the lab. There were large cages to the right of the elevator and as Lyons led the way past them, a monkey screams and hurls itself at the bars towards you. You jumped and Sherlock spun on his heel as he passed the cage, looking at the monkey and the chain around its neck. Your heart swelled in pity.   
“How many animals do you keep down here?”   
“Lots, sir.” The corporal affirmed.   
At the far end of the lab, a scientist wearing coveralls and a breathing mask came out of another room and took his mask off. Another scientist walked across the lab with a beagle on a lead.  
“Any ever escape?” John asked  
“They’d have to know how to use that lift, sir. We’re not breeding them that clever.”   
“Unless they have help.” You muttered, contemplating letting some animals go yourself. The man who had just took his mask off came over to the group.   
“Ah, and you are?”  
“Sorry, Doctor Frankland. I’m just showing these people around.”  
“Ah, new faces, huh? Nice. Careful you don’t get stuck here, though. I only came to fix a tap!” The doctor smiled at you all. John chuckled politely as Frankland walked towards the lift, John then turned to Lyons.   
“How far down does that lift go?” He asked.  
“Quite a way, sir.”  
“Mmm-hmm. And what’s down there?” You asked.  
“Well, we have to keep the bins somewhere, Miss. This way please.” Sherlock watched Frankland as he reached the elevator. The doctor in turn looks around to gaze with interest at the new arrivals. As Lyons leads you and John away, Sherlock walked backwards for a couple of paces before turning to follow.   
“So what exactly is it that you do here?” John asked  
“I thought you’d know, sir, this being an inspection.”   
You and Sherlock looked at the various scientists around the room, a couple looking at a rat in a glass cage, another one doing something to the leg of a monkey on a leash which is sitting on a metal table. You cringed. Nearby, another scientist picked up what looks ominously like a glass container of serum.  
“Well, I’m not an expert, am I?” John said.  
“Everything from stem cell research to trying to cure the common cold, sir.”  
“But mostly weaponry?” You added.  
“Of one sort or another, yes.” He swiped his card through the reader of the door at the end of the lab, then stepped aside for Sherlock again.  
“Biological, chemical ...?” You continued.   
“One war ends, another begins, sir. New enemies to fight. We have to be prepared.” As the door released Sherlock checked his watch again. You furrowed your brow.  
Why does he keep doing that?  
Lyons led you through the doors and into another lab where a monkey stood up on its back legs with one hand high in the air and shrieked before sitting down again on a high metal table. A female scientist looked at it and then turns to her colleague.  
“Okay, Michael, let’s try Harlow Three next time.”  
As she walked away from the table, Lyons approached her.  
“Doctor Stapleton.” He introduces the woman.  
“Yes?” She looked at the three of you. “Who’s this?” “Priority Ultra, ma’am. Orders from on high. An inspection.”   
“Really?” She raised her eyebrows.  
“We’re to be accorded every courtesy, Doctor Stapleton. What’s your role at Baskerville?” Sherlock pressed. Stapleton looked at him and snorted with disbelieving laughter.  
“Er, accorded every courtesy, isn’t that the idea?” John stated.  
“I’m not free to say. Official secrets.”   
Sherlock smiled at her. “Oh, you most certainly are free ...” His smile faded and his voice became ominous “... and I suggest you remain that way.”  
The doctor looked at him for a moment.   
“I have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. I like to mix things up – genes, mostly; now and again actual fingers.”   
Sherlock had a lightbulb moment when she said the words ‘genes’ and reached into his pocket before she finished the sentence.   
“Stapleton. I knew I knew your name.”  
“I doubt it.” The woman scoffed.  
“People say there’s no such thing as coincidence. What dull lives they must lead.” He held up his notebook to her on which he had written a single large word: “BLUEBELL”. She stared at it in amazement as Sherlock watched her face closely. “Have you been talking to my daughter?”  
“Why did Bluebell have to die, Doctor Stapleton?” He asked as he put away the notepad.  
“The rabbit?” John asked, purely bewildered. You had no clue what they were on about.  
“Disappeared from inside a locked hutch, which was always suggestive.” Stapleton stared at him blankly.  
“The rabbit?” John repeated.  
“Clearly an inside job.”   
“Oh, you reckon?”  
“Why? Because it glowed in the dark.” Sherlock clicked his tongue on the last sound.  
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Who are you?” Even as she spoke, Sherlock had been keeping a mental note of the time and now checked his watch again.   
Twenty minutes is up.  
Sherlock lowered his hand and turned to Lyons. “Well, I think we’ve seen enough for now, Corporal. Thank you so much.”  
“That’s it?” He asked in surprise.  
“That’s it.” He turned and headed briskly back towards the door, you and John following behind and Lyons trailing after. “It’s this way, isn’t it?”   
“Just a minute!” Stapleton called after you.  
John caught up to you and Sherlock.  
“Did we just break into a military base to investigate a rabbit?” He said quietly so that Lyons couldn’t overhear him. His tone suggested that he is not best pleased. Sherlock reached the door and swiped his card, then waits for Lyons to catch up to them and do the same with his own card. Sherlock walked swiftly through the security doors and headed for the lift as his phone trilled a text alert. He took out his phone without stopping and read the message.

What are you doing?   
M 

He laughed sarcastically.   
“Twenty-three minutes. Mycroft’s getting slow.” You stated. Reaching the lift doors, he swiped his card and Lyons does likewise. The doors opened to reveal Doctor Frankland stood inside as if he had been waiting there for you ever since you met. He smiles at you.  
“Hello ... again.” Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, Sherlock walked into the lift with everyone else. Very shortly afterwards, one floor up, the doors opened again and revealed a bearded man in military uniform waiting for you. He does not look happy. You grimaced.  
“Er, um, Major ...” Lyons began.   
“This is bloody outrageous. Why wasn’t I told?” The major was red faced.   
“Major Barrymore, is it?” John stepped out of the lift towards him. “Yes, well, good. Very good.” He offered him his hand to shake. “We’re very impressed, aren’t we, Mr. Holmes?”   
Barrymore refused to take John’s hand. Sherlock’s phone sounded another text alert and he reaches into his pocket for it again.   
“Deeply; hugely.” He walked past Barrymore as he looked at his text message which read-

What’s going on Sherlock?   
M 

The major followed along behind the three of you as Sherlock hurried towards the exit door.  
“The whole point of Baskerville was to eliminate this kind of bureaucratic nonsense...”  
“I’m so sorry, Major.” Sherlock smiled  
“Inspections?!”  
“New policy. Can’t remain unmonitored forever. Goodness knows what you’d get up to.” He lowered his voice and turned to you and John. His voice seemed urgent. “Keep walking.” Lyons had briefly ducked into a side room but now hurried out again. “Sir!” He slapped an alarm button on the wall. Alarms started to blare, red lights flashed and the automated security door locked itself. You wince. The others turn back to him.  
“ID unauthorised, sir.”  
“What?” Barrymore questioned.  
“I’ve just had the call.”  
“Is that right?” The major asked. He turned to Sherlock. “Who are you?”  
“Look, there’s obviously been some kind of mistake.” John began. A little further back, Frankland was slowly walking towards the group, looking thoughtful. Barrymore held out his hand for Sherlock’s ID card, which he gave to him. He looked at the card and then up at Sherlock.  
“Clearly not Mycroft Holmes.”  
John whipped out a notebook and started to write. “Computer error, Major. It’ll all have to go in the report.” He sighed.  
“What the hell’s going on?!”  
“It’s all right, Major. I know exactly who these gentlemen are.” Frankland stated.  
“You do?” The major raised a brow.  
“Yeah. I’m getting a little slow on faces but Mr. Holmes here isn’t someone I expected to show up in this place.”  
“Ah, well ...” Sherlock mumbled.  
“Good to see you again, Mycroft.” John tried to mask his surprise. Smiling falsely, Sherlock shook Frankland’s hand.  
“I had the honour of meeting Mr. Holmes at the W.H.O. conference in ...” he pretended to think for a moment. “... Brussels, was it?”  
“Vienna.” Sherlock corrected.  
“Vienna, that’s it!” He looked at Barrymore.  
“This is Mr. Mycroft Holmes, Major. There’s obviously been a mistake.” Barrymore turned and nodded to Lyons, who returned to the alarm switch and turned it off. The lights stopped flashing and the alarm falls silent. You breathed a sigh of relief. A moment later the entrance door’s lock disengaged noisily.  
Barrymore turned back to Frankland.   
“On your head be it, Doctor Frankland.”  
Frankland laughed lightly as he looked at the approaching Corporal Lyons.  
“I’ll show them out, Corporal.” He said.  
“Very well, sir.” Sherlock spun on his heel and walked towards the now open entrance door. John, you and Frankland followed him while Barrymore glared after you unhappily. You go outside, John grimacing anxiously with an “Oh god, I really hope we’re going to get away with this!” expression on his face. Frankland trotted after you.  
“Thank you.”  
“This is about Henry Knight, isn’t it?” None of you answered him but he takes your silence as agreement.  
“I thought so. I knew he wanted help but I didn’t realise he was going to contact Sherlock Holmes!”  
Sherlock grimaced. “Oh, don’t worry. I know who you really are. I’m never off your website. Thought you’d be wearing the hat, though.”  
“That wasn’t my hat.” He frowned   
“I hardly recognise him without the hat!” He said to you and your brother. John tried unsuccessfully to bite back a smile.  
“It wasn’t my hat.” Sherlock repeated tetchily, sounding the ‘t’s loudly.  
“I love the blog too, Doctor Watson.”  
“Oh, cheers!”   
“The, er, the Pink thing ...”  
“Mmm-hmm.”  
“... and that one about the aluminium crutch!”  
“Yes.”  
“And you must be (y/n). The other genius.” You nodded with a small smile.  
Sherlock stopped and turned back to Frankland.  
“You know Henry Knight?” He asked.  
“Well, I knew his dad better. He had all sorts of mad theories about this place. Still, he was a good friend.”  
He looked back the way they came and sees that Major Barrymore was standing some distance away and watching you. He turned back to Sherlock. “Listen, I can’t really talk now.” He took a card from his coat pocket and hands it over. “Here’s my, er, cell number. If I could help with Henry, give me a call.” He smiled slightly.  
“I never did ask, Doctor Frankland. What exactly is it that you do here?” Sherlock asked.  
“Oh, Mr. Holmes, I would love to tell you – but then, of course, I’d have to kill you!” He laughed cheerfully. Sherlock remained straight faced.  
“That would be tremendously ambitious of you.” Frankland’s smile faded and he shrugged in embarrassment.   
“Tell me about Doctor Stapleton.” He asked.  
“Never speak ill of a colleague.” The doctor shook his head.   
“Yet you’d speak well of one, which you’re clearly omitting to do.” You added.  
“I do seem to be, don’t I?” The doctor shrugged. Sherlock raised the card that Frankland just gave him.   
“I’ll be in touch.”  
“Any time.”   
You all walked away from him and headed towards the Land Rover.  
“So?” John started.  
“So?” Sherlock repeated.  
“What was all that about the rabbit?” Smiling briefly, Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around him, flipping the collar up just as they reach the car. You rolled his eyes and turned to him in annoyance.  
“Oh, please, can we not do this, this time?” These were quite potentially the first words you had spoken to him since you had arrived.   
“Do what?”   
“You being all mysterious with your pointy cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.” You couldn’t cope with him making himself look more attractive. As you turned to go to the car door, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but was apparently so disconcerted that for a moment he couldn’t find the words.   
“... I don’t do that.” He said in a low tone.  
“Yeah you do.” You snapped back. You get into the car.

Sherlock drove across the moors again. You once again were sat in the back seat, looking moodily out of the window. Thinking about Sherlocks pointy cheek bones and flipped collar. His lips on yours...   
you shook the thought from your head as your brother began to speak.  
“So, the email from Kirsty – the, er, missing luminous rabbit.”   
“Kirsty Stapleton, whose mother specialises in genetic manipulation.” Sherlock confirmed.  
“She made her daughter’s rabbit glow in the dark.” “Probably a fluorescent gene removed and spliced into the specimen. Simple enough these days.”  
“So ...” He looked across to Sherlock and waited for him to continue the sentence.  
“So we know that Doctor Stapleton performs secret genetic experiments on animals. The question is: has she been working on something deadlier than a rabbit?”  
“To be fair, that is quite a wide field.”   
Sherlock looked at John in startled surprise as he realised that what he said was true. He frowned.   
“Eyes on the road.” John urged as the car dipped into a pothole.


	26. The talk

You arrived at Henry Knight's house. His home was enormous – a four-storey stone building that was probably a very important property in the area in the past. A large old-fashioned glass conservatory was attached to the rear of the building on the ground floor and a modern two-storey glass extension had been built onto the side of the house to join it to another two-storey stone building nearby. The three of you go into the conservatory, which looked very run-down and clearly hadn't had a paint job in years. You walked across to the door on the opposite side. Sherlock rang the doorbell and Henry opened the door.   
"Hi." The resident said weakly.  
"Hi." John responded.  
"Come in, come in." Wiping his feet on the doormat, Sherlock and John walked in and heads down the hallway. You followed more slowly, stopping to look into a large high-ceilinged sitting room before following Henry again.  
"This is, uh ... are you, um ..." John searched for the right word for a moment before finding it.  
"... rich?"  
"Yeah."  
"Right..." Henry led off again. Sherlock threw a dark look at John before following him. Not long afterwards, in the kitchen in the glass extension, Sherlock put two sugar lumps into his mug and stirred them in. He was sitting on a stool at the central island and John was sitting next to him. You stood next to John, and took a sip of your drinks  
Henry stood on the other side of the island gazing down at the work surface.  
"It's-it's a couple of words. It's what I keep seeing. "Liberty" ..."  
John reached into his pocket for his notebook. "Liberty?" He asked. Henry looked up to him. "'Liberty' and ... 'In' It's just that." He picked up the bottle of milk that sat on the island.  
"Are you finished?"  
"Mmm." John nodded. Henry turned around to put the milk into the fridge. John looked at you.   
"Mean anything to you?"   
"'Liberty in death' – isn't that the expression? The only true freedom..." you said softly. John nodded in agreement as Henry turned back around, sighing. Sherlock took a drink from his mug.  
"What now, then?" Henry asked.  
"Sherlock's got a plan." John stated.  
"Yes." Sherlock nodded.  
"Right..."  
"We take you back out onto the moor ..."  
"Okay ..." Henry said nervously.  
"... and see if anything attacks you."  
"What?!" John exclaimed.   
"That should bring things to a head." You mumbled.  
"At night? You want me to go out there at night?" "Mmm." Sherlock hummed.  
"That's your plan?" He snorted with sarcastic laughter. "Brilliant." He muttered.   
"Got any better ideas?"  
"That's not a plan." Your brother retorted   
"Listen, if there is a monster out there, John, there's only one thing to do: find out where it lives." He looked to Henry and smiled widely at him before taking another drink from his mug. Henry did not look encouraged by this.

As night begins to fall, Henry led you, Sherlock and John across the rocks towards Dewer's Hollow. All four of you have flashlights to light the uneven ground below your feet. Foxes screamed repeatedly in the distance. By the time you reach the woods it was almost fully dark and it became even darker as you head into the trees. John, bringing up the rear, heard rustling to his right and turned around to look. No one else seemed notice or care, so you all continued onwards as John walked cautiously towards the sound he heard. As you trudged ahead,  
Sherlock broke the awkward silence.  
"Met a friend of yours." He stated plainly.  
"What?"   
"Doctor Frankland."  
"Oh, right. Bob, yeah."  
"Seems pretty concerned about you."  
"He's a worrier, bless him. He's been very kind to me since I came back."  
"He knew your father."  
"Yeah."  
"But he works at Baskerville. Didn't your dad have a problem with that?"  
"Well, mates are mates, aren't they? I mean, look at you and John."  
"What about us?"  
"Well, I mean, he's a pretty straightforward bloke, and you ..." Glancing back at Sherlock, he decided not to follow that line. You sucked in the cold air through gritted teeth, feeling very awkward.  
"They agreed never to talk about work, Uncle Bob and my dad."  
He stopped and turned to his left. Sherlock stopped and looked at him. Henry nodded in the direction he's looking.   
"Dewer's Hollow." He said unhappily.   
Sherlock turned and looked at the steep drop in the land that led down into a misty dark valley. You shivered.

Sherlock headed down into the Hollow, being careful to keep his balance on the steep slippery ground. Henry and you followed him down more slowly. Sherlock reached the bottom and shone his torch around, finding giant paw prints all around the ground. Some distance away, John was now running to get to the group. Another long anguished howl rings out. Still halfway down the slope, Henry paused. You shone his torch up in the direction of the sound ... and your face began to fill with horror at the sight that greeted you. Whatever it was growled savagely from the top of the Hollow. As the beam from your flashlight flailed along the Hollow's rim, the whatever-it-is had already retreated. You recoiled, your face confused and bewildered as you tried to take in what he just saw. From his position some distance away, Henry hurried down to join you and Sherlock.

"Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Did you see it?"   
You lowered your head, still unable to get your mind to accept the evidence of his eyes. You stared blankly around, shaking your head. You then shoved Henry out of the way and hurried back up the hillside. Henry followed after you. Very shortly afterwards, John finally caught up with you as the other two scrambled up the steep hill.   
"Did you hear that?" John asked, referring to the howling that echoed in the dark woods. You stormed straight past him. John looked at Sherlock with a confused look but then turned and followed.  
"We saw it. We saw it."  
"No. I didn't see anything." You snapped.  
"What? What are you talking about?"  
"I didn't. See. Anything." You said, gritting your teeth. You hurried onwards with the others trailing along behind you. 

You and Sherlock arrived back at the inn. John was making sure Henry got home safe. You sat in an armchair by a roaring open fire, face is still full of shock and disbelief. Unaware of your distress, other patrons sat at tables nearby having their evening meal. John came in and sat down in the armchair on the other side of the fire, observing you. 

"Well, he is in a pretty bad way. He's manic, totally convinced there's some mutant super-dog roaming the moors." With your hands in the prayer position in front of his mouth, you glanced nervously at John for a moment, then continued to gaze in the direction of the fire, lost in thought.  
"And there isn't, though, is there? 'Cause if people knew how to make a mutant super-dog, we'd know."   
You clasped your fingers together, closing your eyes and breathing heavily as if trying to fend off a panic attack.   
"They'd be for sale. I mean, that's how it works." He remembered something and reached for his notebook. "Er, listen: er, on the moor I saw someone signalling. Er, Morse – I guess it's Morse. Doesn't seem to make much sense." You pulled in a sharp breath through your nose and then blew the breath out again through your mouth. You were barely listening to him.   
"Er, U, M, Q, R, A. Does that mean ... anything ..."  
He finally realised how distressed his baby sister looked and paused for a moment, then decides that he couldn't be right. He put his notebook away again and sat back in his chair.   
"So, okay, what have we got? We know there's footprints, 'cause Henry found them; so did the tour guide bloke. We all heard something." He was trying to distract you, but failed. You blew out another shaky breath. John looked across to you and frowns momentarily.  
"Maybe we should just look for whoever's got a big dog."  
"Henry's right." You muttered.  
"What?" John blinked  
"I saw it too." Your voice was shaking.  
"What?" John looked confused.  
"I saw it too, John."  
"Just ... just a minute." He leant forward. "You saw what?"  
You finally met his gaze but your face twisted with self-loathing as you forced yourself to admit the truth.  
"A hound, out there in the Hollow." You spoke through gritted teeth. "A gigantic hound." John almost laughed as you looks away, trying unsuccessfully to blink back tears. John sat back in his chair again, not quite able to cope with this strange reaction from you.  
"Um, look, (y/n), we have to be rational about this, okay? Now you, of all people, can't just ..." he trailed off as you blew out another breath.  
"Let's just stick to what we know, yes? Stick to the facts." You glared at him.  
"Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be true." You blinked rapidly again.   
"What does that mean?" Looking away again, you reached down and picked up your drink from a nearby table. Looking down at your trembling hand, he sniggers in spite.  
"Look at me. I'm afraid, John. Afraid." You rolled your eyes at yourself. You took a long drink and then held the glass up again, hand still shaking.  
"(Y/N)?"  
You looked over to Sherlock. He was having the same reaction to you.  
"Go speak to him." You lowered your head as you thought.  
"Sherlock?" Your brother called out.  
"Always been able to keep myself distant ..." he took a drink from his own glass. "... divorce myself from ... feelings. But look, you see ..." He held up the glass and glared at his shaking hand.  
"...body's betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions." He slammed the glass down onto the table. "The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment." Even in your own distressed state you could tell it was directed at you too.  
"Yeah, all right, Spock, just ..." John realised that he was starting to raise his voice. He looked around at the other people in the restaurant behind him and then looked back to Sherlock.  
"... take it easy." John said, softer than previously. Sherlock was blowing out a few more breaths and still failing to bring himself under control. He glanced panic-stricken at John.   
"You've been pretty wired lately, both of you. You know you have. I think you've just gone out there and got yourselves a bit worked up." John glanced to you both.   
"Worked ... up?" Sherlock seemed insulted.  
"It was dark and scary ..." Sherlock let out a sarcastic laugh.   
"Me?! There's nothing wrong with me." He looked away, almost beginning to hyperventilate, then put his fingertips to his temples, groaning in anguish. John looked at him in concern.   
"Sherlock..." Sherlock began blowing out breaths again, his fingers trembling against his skin.  
"Sher..." John moved towards the taller man. "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME!" Sherlock yelled loudly and furiously. He glared at John. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"   
He looked round at the other patrons, all of whom were now staring at him. He looked away again, then looks at John.  
"You want me to prove it, yes?" He pulled in a deep breath, trying to get himself under control.  
"We're looking for a dog, yes, a great big dog, that's your brilliant theory. Cherchez le chien. Good, excellent, yes, where shall we start?" You listened absently from the chair. He looked over his shoulder and pointed at a man and woman sitting opposite each other at a table in the corner of the restaurant. His voice became savage and relentless as he goes into deduction mode.  
"How about them? The sentimental widow and her son, the unemployed fisherman. The answer's yes."  
"Yes?" John asked.  
"She's got a West Highland terrier called Whisky. Not exactly what we're looking for."  
"Oh, Sherlock, for God's sake ..." John muttered quietly.  
Sherlock looked briefly across at the man and his knitted jumper with reindeer and holly leaves on it before turning away again.   
"Look at the jumper he's wearing. Hardly worn. Clearly he's uncomfortable in it. Maybe it's because of the material; more likely the hideous pattern, suggesting it's a present, probably Christmas. So he wants into his mother's good books. Why? Almost certainly money." He took another quick glance at the man. "He's treating her to a meal but his own portion is small. That means he wants to impress her, but he's trying to economise on his own food."  
"Well, maybe he's just not hungry."   
"No, small plate. Starter. He's practically licked it clean. She's nearly finished her pavlova. If she'd treated him, he'd have had as much as he wanted. He's hungry all right, and not well off – you can tell that by the state of his cuffs and shoes." Sherlock fired quickly, becoming almost frenetic. He asked the question he expected to come from John at any moment.  
"'How d'you know she's his mother?'" John, who until now has been looking at his colleague with concern as Sherlock's voice – while lowered – had become increasingly intense, smiled briefly.   
"Who else would give him a Christmas present like that? Well, it could be an aunt or an elder sister, but mother's more likely. Now, he was a fisherman. Scarring pattern on his hands, very distinctive – fish hooks. They're all quite old now, which suggests he's been unemployed for some time. Not much industry in this part of the world, so he's turned to his widowed mother for help. "Widowed?" Yes, obviously. She's got a man's wedding ring on a chain round her neck – clearly her late husband's and too big for her finger. She's well-dressed but her jewellery's cheap. She could afford better, but she's kept it – it's sentimental. Now, the dog: tiny little hairs all over the leg from where it gets a little bit too friendly, but no hairs above the knees, suggesting it's a small dog, probably a terrier. In fact it is – a West Highland terrier called Whisky. "How the hell do you know that, Sherlock?" 'Cause she was on the same train as us and I heard her calling its name and that's not cheating, that's listening, I use my senses, John, unlike some people, so you see, I am fine, in fact I've never been better, so just Leave. Me. Alone." (He glared at John, who stared back at him in shock.  
"Yeah." He cleared his throat. "Okay. Okay." Distressed by his colleague's venom, he tried to settle back in his chair as Sherlock stared towards the fire, breathing heavily.  
"And why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend."  
"I don't have friends." His voice was loaded with venom.  
"Naah. Wonder why?" He got up and walked away.  
You snapped your eyes open and glared at Sherlock, even through your own distress you were furious with him. You stood up and strode over to him. You looked him in the eye and got up close and personal. You slapped him. Sherlock stumbled back. Everyone else in the room was staring and you could feel their eyes trained on you.  
"You can talk to me however you want, you can take out the fact that I humiliated you in front of your little girlfriend and brother on me. But you do not. I repeat, do not, speak to my brother like that again, do you understand?" Your voice was low and loaded with venom. You stormed out of the parlour and upstairs to your room.

About twenty minutes later your phone chimed. You placed you book down and picked up your phone.  
It was from John. 

Can we switch rooms for the night? I want to be alone.

You sighed, knowing full well Sherlock had made him "interview" Henry's therapist who was stood at the bar when you stormed away. Some apology that is... you sighed 

You've got a girl haven't you

You texted him back.

Pretty please (y/n)?

Came the almost instant reply. You sighed.

Fine.

You knocked on Sherlocks door which was a few doors down from your own. Sherlock opened the door and blinked in confusion when he saw you. His eyes were red.   
"John's got a girl. I'm staying in here tonight." You stated plainly, striding past him and into the room. You had your book tucked under your arm. You sat on the bed closest to the door and began to read again. Sherlock shut the door and walked over to the window and stared out blankly. The silence held a metric fucktonne of tension. All you could hear was the occasional flip of a page. You could barely concentrate on your reading.

"We should talk about-" Sherlock began.  
"No, I don't think we should." You interrupted.  
"(Y/N), I just don't understand..." You looked over to him. His crystal blue eyes were sad. John had told you that once you had left Sherlock wasn't the same. He was... mopey.  
"'Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.' 'never let your heart rule over your head'." You quoted him. He blinked in shock.   
"How did you...?"  
"'I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage ... Thank you for the final proof.'" You muttered. "That's what you think, right? So why are you trying so desperately. To 'make things right?' Things will never go back to the way they were, Sherlock."  
"But I didn't-"  
"You said that you were interested in me. That you were romantically inclined to me, but the moment Irene Adler showed up, you were all over her, Sherlock. You hurt me and I'm not willing to be hurt again."  
"I wasn't interested in her!" He exclaimed. "I just wanted to solve the case."  
"Then why the desperate need to show off? You gave her the answer to a question which she then fed to terrorists. Usually you would've noticed something was wrong, but you were blinded by her. John thinks you don't refer to her as Irene because you hate her.  
Is it loathing, or a salute? One of a kind; the one woman who matters.” You quoted Mycroft bitterly.  
“I...” Sherlock blinked at you.   
“Sherlock, don’t. I can’t deal with this right now.” You sniffed back tears.  
“I’m going to bed.” You said as you pulled the covers over your head. You quietly cried yourself to sleep.

In the morning you went downstairs, avoiding Sherlock like the plague. You looked out the window of the lounge and saw John in the church graveyard, sitting on the steps of a war memorial and looking through the notes in his notebook. You decided to go speak to him.  
“How was last night?”  
“Absolutely boring, she left after that doctor from Baskerville showed up, talking about Sherlock.”  
“And you didn’t come to get me so I could go back to my room?”  
“By the time I came up, you were asleep. Sorry...” your brother smiled sadly. His expression becomes uncomfortable as he saw Sherlock approaching. He tucked his notebook into his pocket. Sherlock stopped in front of him, also looking awkward.   
“Did you, er, get anywhere with that Morse code?”  
“No.” You both started to walk away.  
“U, M, Q, R, A, wasn’t it?” You kept walking and Sherlock followed along behind.  
“UMQRA.” Sherlock voiced the initials as a word.  
“Nothing.”  
In Sherlock’s mind, he put full stops in between the letters but still voices it as a word. “U.M.Q...”   
“Look, forget it. It’s ... I thought I was on to something. I wasn’t.”  
“Sure?” Sherlock asked.  
“Yeah.” John looked to you and rolled his eyes.  
“How about Louise Mortimer? Did you get anywhere with her?”  
“No.”  
“Too bad. Did you get any information?” John smiled briefly and glanced over his shoulder but still kept walking.   
“You being funny now?”  
“Thought it might break the ice a bit.”  
“Funny doesn’t suit you. I’d stick to ice.” You muttered.  
Sherlock stared at your retreating backs, his face full of pain.  
“John... (y/n)...”  
“It’s fine.” John said.  
“No, wait. What happened last night ... Something happened to me; something I’ve not really experienced before ...”  
“Yes, you said: fear. Sherlock Holmes got scared. You said.” John said, unhappily.  
Sherlock caught up to the both of you. He took a hold of John’s arm and pulled him round to face him. You instinctively turned to look at him too.  
“No-no-no, it was more than that, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt. I’ve always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night.”  
“You’re not the only one who was distressed Sherlock.” You said bitterly.  
“You can’t actually believe that you saw some kind of monster.” John looked at the both of you.  
“No, I can’t believe that.” Sherlock grinned bitterly for a moment. “But I did see it, so the question is: how? How?”   
“Yes. Yeah, right, good. So you’ve got something to go on, then? Good luck with that.”  
He turned and started to walk away again. Sherlock turned and calls after him.  
“Listen, what I said before, John. I meant it.” John stopped and turned back to face him.  
“I don’t have friends.” He bit his lip briefly.   
“I’ve got family...”  
These words made an unholy sadness fill you up. You knew he was using your own words against you. You clutched your locket. You still hadn’t took out the photo taken at Baker Street. John looked away as he took that statement in for a moment, then he nodded briefly and glanced back at Sherlock.  
“Right.” He turned and walks away again. Sherlock looked down, then instantly raised his head again as his eyes began to flicker in realisation of something, a look that used to trigger butterflies in your stomach. You hated to admit it, but the fluttering was a welcome feeing at this moment.  
“John? John!” He started to chase after you and your brother.  
“You are amazing! You are fantastic!”   
“Yes, all right! You don’t have to overdo it.” Your brother grumbled. The tall man caught up and overtook the two of you, then walked backwards in front of you.  
“You’ve never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable.”  
“Cheers. ... What?” Sherlock turned round and walked beside him, taking out his own notebook and starting to write in it.   
“Some people who aren’t geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others.”  
“Hang on – you were saying “Sorry” a minute ago. Don’t spoil it... Go on: what have I done that’s so bloody stimulating?”  
Sherlock stopped just outside the pub door and turned back to you, showing what he has just written in his notebook: HOUND   
“Yeah?”  
“But what if it’s not a word? What if it is individual letters?” Sherlock pulled the notebook back and began writing in it again. He showed the page of the notebook again, which now reads: H.O.U.N.D.   
“You think it’s an acronym?” You asked.  
“Absolutely no idea but ...” he folded the notebook away then turned towards the pub door and trailed off as you saw a familiar figure standing inside at the bar. 

Wearing grey trousers and a grey shirt with a light jacket over the top, heavily suntanned and with sunglasses on, Detective Inspector Lestrade had his hands in his trouser pockets. You beamed at the sight of him, as Sherlock stormed into the pub.   
“What the hell are you doing here?” He demanded.  
“Well, nice to see you too! I’m on holiday, would you believe?”  
“No, I wouldn’t.” Sherlock snapped  
Lestrade took his sunglasses off as John and you walks over to the bar.   
“Hullo, John.” He beamed when he saw you. “(Y/n)! Where’ve you been!” He wrapped his arms around you in a dad-like hug.”  
“Greg!” You hugged him back tightly.   
“I heard you were in the area. What are you up to? You after this Hound of Hell like on the telly?”  
“I’m waiting for an explanation, Inspector. Why are you here?” Sherlock interjected.  
“I’ve told you: I’m on holiday.”  
“You’re brown as a nut. You’re clearly just back from your ‘holidays’.” Sherlock retorted   
“Yeah, well I fancied another one.” Greg said, trying to look nonchalant.  
“Oh, this is Mycroft, isn’t it?” Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
“No, look ...”  
“Of course it is! One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my handler to ... to spy on me incognito. Is that why you’re calling yourself Greg?”  
“That’s his name.” You raised an eyebrow at him.   
“Is it?”   
“Yes – if you’d ever bothered to find out. Look, I’m not your handler ...” he turned away to pick up his pint from the bar “... and I don’t just do what your brother tells me.”   
“Actually, you could be just the man we want.” You smiled.  
“Why?”  
“Well, I’ve not been idle, Sherlock.” You rummaged in your coat pocket.  
“I think I might have found something.”   
You showed Sherlock the sales invoice from Undershaw Meat Supplies which you stole off the bar while you were checking in.  
“Here. Didn’t know if it was relevant; starting to look like it might be. That is an awful lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant.” You said.  
“Excellent.” Sherlock smiled at you.  
“Nice scary inspector from Scotland Yard who can put in a few calls might come in very handy.” You smiled back. As Sherlock and Greg exchanged a look, John slapped his hand down on the bell on top of the bar.   
“Shop!” He exclaimed.


	27. H.O.U.N.D

Later, in a small Snug next to the bar, Greg sat at a table looking through paperwork – presumably previous invoices from Undershaw – while Gary the manager and Billy the chef sit at the other side of the table looking at him anxiously. Nearby, Sherlock has poured a cup of coffee from a filter machine and was stirring it vigorously. He ostentatiously tapped the drips off the spoon into the cup and then picked it up and carried it over to John, offering it to him.   
"What's this?"   
"Coffee. I made coffee."  
"You never make coffee." You said, furrowing your brow in suspicion.  
"I just did. Don't you want it?" He said offering the cup to John once more  
"You don't have to keep apologising."  
Sherlock looked away with a hurt expression on his face. John relented and took the cup and saucer.   
"Thanks."  
Sherlock smiled happily. You were still looking at him, wondering what he was upto. John took a mouthful and grimaces.  
"Mm... I don't take sugar ..." The hurt expression returned to Sherlock's face as he looked away again. He looked like a puppy whose owner had just told him off for chewing his slippers. John looked at his face and felt that he had no choice but to take another drink.   
"These records go back nearly two months." Lestrade stated.  
Grimacing at the taste, John put the cup back into the saucer and looked at Sherlock.  
"That's nice. That's good." He turned away to put the drink down as Greg continued interrogating Gary and Billy.  
"Is that when you had the idea, after the TV show went out?"  
"It's me. It was me." Billy turned to his partner. "I'm sorry, Gary – I couldn't help it. I had a bacon sandwich at Carol's wedding and one thing just led to another ..."   
Sherlock grinned behind him, Greg looked equally disbelieving.  
"Nice try."  
"Look, we were just trying to give things a bit of a boost, you know? A great big dog run wild up on the moor – it was heaven-sent. It was like us having our own Loch Ness Monster."  
"Where do you keep it?"  
"There's an old mineshaft. It's not too far. It was all right there."  
"'Was'?" You enquired   
Gary sighed. "We couldn't control the bloody thing. It was vicious." He sighed again. "And then, a month ago, Billy took him to the vet and, er ... you know." "It's dead?" You asked.  
"Put down."  
"Yeah. No choice. So it's over." Billy said sadly.  
"It was just a joke, you know?"  
"Yeah, hilarious!" Lestrade stood up and looked down at them angrily. "You've nearly driven a man out of his mind." He walked out of the room, John following him closely. Sherlock watched him go, then peered into John's coffee cup before following. You frowned and followed yourself.  
What are you up to, Sherlock Holmes?

You followed Greg and John across the bar and out of the pub.  
"You know he's actually pleased you're here?" Greg threw him a disbelieving look. "Secretly pleased."   
"Is he? That's nice. I suppose he likes having all the same faces back together. Appeals to his ... his ..." He stopped and searched for the right word. You provided an appropriate suggestion.   
"... Asperger's?" Greg and John both smiled slightly. Sherlock came out of the pub and glowered at you, having heard the last word. You smiled back, teasingly.   
"So, you believe him about having the dog destroyed?"  
"No reason not to." You replied.  
"Well, hopefully there's no harm done. Not quite sure what I'd charge him with anyway. I'll have a word with the local Force." He nodded to the boys and you.  
"Right, that's that, then. Catch you later." He smiled.  
"I'm enjoying this! It's nice to get London out of your lungs!" You watched him walk away, then turned to Sherlock and John again.  
"So that was their dog that people saw out on the moor?" John asked.  
"Looks like it." Sherlock nodded.  
"But that wasn't what you saw. That wasn't just an ordinary dog."   
"No." His gaze became distant. "It was immense, had burning red eyes and it was glowing, John. Its whole body was glowing." He shuddered, shaking off the memory, then turned and walks towards the car park.  
"I've got a theory but I need to get back into Baskerville to test it."  
"How? Can't pull off the ID trick again  
"Might not have to." He had just got his phone out and hit a speed dial and now he lifted the phone to his ear.  
"Hello, brother dear. How are you?" He said insincerely into the phone.

At the entrance gates, the Land Rover approached and stopped at the gate once more. An armed security guard moved over to Sherlock's side as the dog handler and sniffer dog also approached. "Afternoon, sir. If you could turn the engine off."   
Sherlock handed over his ID pass and switched the car off.  
"Thank you." As he walked over the gate room to swipe the card and other soldiers checked the vehicle over from the outside, Sherlock spoke quietly.  
"I need to see Major Barrymore as soon as we get inside."   
"Right."   
"Which means you'll have to start the search for the hound. I want you to come with me, (y/n)."  
"Okay..."   
"In the labs; Stapleton's first." He said to John. The guard brung the ID card back and handed it over. "Could be dangerous." He said quietly to John. He smiled momentarily. The gate slid open and Sherlock started the car and drove onto the base. 

As soon as you got inside John split off from you and Sherlock. You arrived at Barrymore's office and the Major's unhappy face greeted you.   
"Oh, you know I'd love to. I'd love to give you unlimited access to this place. Why not?!" The major snapped snarkily to Sherlock.   
"It's a simple enough request, Major."  
"I've never heard of anything so bizarre."   
"You're to give me twenty-four hours. It's what I've ..." he paused momentarily "... negotiated."   
"Not a second more. I may have to comply with this order but I don't have to like it." The major said sternly. He swung around to his computer on the desk behind him as Sherlock and you started to leave the office.  
"I don't know what you expect to find here anyway."  
"Perhaps the truth." You turned back.  
"About what? Oh, I see. The big coat should have told me." You frowned. "You're one of the conspiracy lot, aren't you?" He grinned as you rolled your eyes.  
"Well, then, go ahead, seek them out: the monsters, the death rays, the aliens."   
"Have you got any of those?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly. Now it was Barrymore's turn to roll his eyes.  
"Oh, just wondering." Barrymore leaning forward secretively.  
"A couple. Crash landed here in the sixties. We call them Abbott and Costello." He straightened up and turned back to his computer.  
"Good luck, Mr. Holmes. Ms. Watson." 

You pulled out your phone and noticed a missed call from your brother. You frowned and called him back. He answered it on the second ring. He kept his voice as soft as he possibly can but even at such a low volume his terror is evident.  
"It's here. It's in here with me." He said softly.  
"Where are you?"  
"Get me out, (y/n). You have got to get me out. The big lab: the first lab that we saw." He breathed heavily. John whined loudly in terror and clapped his hand over his mouth again.   
"John? John?" You said, panicking slightly. Sherlock frowned at you, wondering what was going on. You put the phone on loud speaker.  
"Now, (y/n). Please." John pleaded, his voice no more than a whisper.  
"All right, I'll find you. Keep talking." You assured.  
"I can't. It'll hear me."   
"Keep talking. What are you seeing?"   
"John?" The creature snarled again.  
"Yes, I'm here."   
"What can you see?" You could hear John trying to keep his terrified breathing under control. Your heart broke for your terrified brother.  
"I don't know. I don't know, but I can hear it." He paused for a moment. "Did you hear that?" His voice quivered.   
"Stay calm, stay calm. Can you see it?"  
"Can you see it?" Sherlock pressed.  
"No. I can ..." He trailed off. "I can see it." His voice filled with horror. "It's here."   
You and Sherlock had arrived in the lab and looked around frantically. Then Sherlocks tugged the sheeting upwards as you switched the lights on. John's face appeared on the other side of the cage, looking anxiously up at him as he pulled the door open and goes inside.  
"Are you all right?"   
John's eyes widened in utter bewilderment as Sherlock bent down to him and put a hand onto his shoulder. You rushed over to them.  
"John ..."  
"Jesus Christ ..." He grabbed the bars and pulled himself to his feet, hurrying out of the cage and stuffing his phone away as he turned back to his friend.

"It was the hound, Sherlock. It was here. I swear it, Sherlock. It must ..." John was still breathless and panic-stricken. He looked around the lab frantically, which – now fully illuminated – showed that there's nowhere that a large monster can be hiding.  
"It must ..." His voice became high-pitched.  
"Did ... did ... did you see it? You must have!"   
Sherlock held out a placatory hand towards him.  
"It's all right. It's okay now."  
"NO IT'S NOT! IT'S NOT OKAY! I saw it. I was wrong!" Your brothers voice was high-pitched, frantic and hysterical.  
Sherlock shrugged as John breathed heavily. You blinked at him.   
How is he being so calm?!  
"Well, let's not jump to conclusions." You furrowed your brow at the detective once more.  
"What?" You snapped.  
"What did you see?" Sherlock ignored you  
"I told you: I saw the hound."  
"Huge; red eyes?"  
"Yes."  
"Glowing?"   
"Yeah."  
"No." Sherlock smiled lightly.  
"What?"   
"I made up the bit about glowing. You saw what you expected to see because I told you. You have been drugged. We have all been drugged."  
"Drugged?" You asked.  
"Can you walk?"   
"'Course I can walk."   
"Come on, then. It's time to lay this ghost." He turned and headed for the door. You gave John a tight hug. Still trying to catch his breath, John looked around the lab again, then stumbled after you and Sherlock. 

In a small room full of cages, Doctor Stapleton was examing a fluffy white rabbit on a metal table. She looked up as Sherlock comes through the door, followed by you.   
"Oh. Back again? What's on your mind this time?"  
"Murder, Doctor Stapleton. Refined, cold-blooded murder." He reached back and turned off the light switch by the door. The limited lighting coming from the window at the end of the room was just enough to show that the rabbit was brightly glowing green. Sherlock turned the lights back on again.   
"Will you tell little Kirsty what happened to Bluebell or shall I?" He smiled unpleasantly at her. She sighed.   
"Okay. What do you want?"  
"Can I borrow your microscope?"

In a larger lab, Sherlock gazed into a microscope. Unhappy with what he was seeing, he turned away from the scope and crushes something which looks crystalline into smaller pieces with a little hammer. Time passed slowly as he varied between sitting with his back to the microscope, his hands folded in the prayer position in front of him as he thought, gazing into the microscope, or scribbling chemical formulae onto the desk with different coloured marker pens. Nearby, John and you sat on stools. John had his head propped on his hand, gazing blankly into space, while you were watching Sherlock intently. Doctor Stapleton is standing near you.   
"Are you sure you're okay?" John looked up at her, blinking.  
"You look very peaky."  
"No, I'm all right." He confirmed.  
"It was the GFP gene from a jellyfish, in case you're interested."  
"What?" You cast your gaze to her.   
"In the rabbits."  
"Mmm, right, yes." You turned your attention back to Sherlock.  
"Aequoria Victoria, if you really want to know."   
John looked up at her.  
"Why?"  
"Why not? We don't ask questions like that here. It isn't done." At that moment Sherlock made a growling noise and looked increasingly irritated as he picked up another slide and put it under the microscope.   
"There was a mix-up, anyway. My daughter ended up with one of the lab specimens, so poor Bluebell had to go."  
"Your compassion's overwhelming." You said cynically, rolling your eyes.  
"I know. I hate myself sometimes." She said mockingly.  
"So, come on then. You can trust me – I'm a doctor. What else have you got hidden away up here?" John quizzed. Exasperated, Sherlock took the slide out again. Stapleton sighed.  
"Listen: if you can imagine it, someone is probably doing it somewhere. Of course they are." Sherlock was staring intently at his latest slide but his eyes drifted across towards John and Stapleton briefly.  
"And cloning?"  
"Yes, of course. Dolly the Sheep, remember?"   
"Human cloning?"  
"Why not?" Stapleton said plainly.  
You sighed, the conversation boring you. You stood up and walked to Sherlock.   
"What about animals? Not sheep ... big animals." They continued.  
"Size isn't a problem, not at all. The only limits are ethics and the law, and both those things can be ... very flexible. But not here – not at Baskerville."  
Furious, Sherlock snatched the latest slide out from under the 'scope and hurled it against the nearest wall. You had to duck out the way to avoid it.   
"It's not there!" Sherlock seethed.  
"Jesus!" John sighed.  
"Nothing there! Doesn't make any sense."   
"What were you expecting to find?" You said finally reaching him and putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. As soon as you made contact you recoiled, remembering why you had been ignoring him.  
"A drug, of course. There has to be a drug – a hallucinogenic or a delirient of some kind. There's no trace of anything in the sugar." He began to pace.  
"Sugar?" John asked  
"The sugar, yes. It's a simple process of elimination. I saw the hound – saw it as my imagination expected me to see it: a genetically engineered monster. But I knew I couldn't believe the evidence of my own eyes, so there were seven possible reasons for it, the most possible being narcotics. Henry Knight – he saw it too but you didn't, John. You didn't see it. Now, we have eaten and drunk exactly the same things since we got to Grimpen apart from one thing: you don't take sugar in your coffee."  
"I see. So ..."  
"I took it from Henry's kitchen – his sugar." He glared down at the microscope. "It's perfectly all right."   
"But maybe it's not a drug."  
"No, it has to be a drug." He sat back on the stool with his head buried in his hands. He then lowered his hands a little but kept his head bowed and his eyes closed.  
"But how did it get into our systems. How?"   
Slowly he began to raise his head, still keeping his eyes closed.  
"There has to be something ..." The word 'hound' kept drifting across your mind's eye, you tried to ignore it, not seeing the relevance. He turned his head repeatedly as if he was trying to follow words inside his head.  
"... something ... ah, something ..." His eyes opened. "... something buried deep." Taking a sharp breath through his nose, he turned and pointed imperiously at John and Stapleton.  
"Get out."  
"What?"  
"Get out. I need to go to my mind palace." John sagged on his seat with an "Oh, not again" look.   
"Your what?" Stapleton blinked  
Sherlock had already turned his head away again and was staring ahead of himself. John got off his stool.  
"He's not gonna be doing much talking for a while. We may as well go."  
"Why does she get to stay?" Stapleton looked at you.  
"She can help." John smiled at you.  
Sherlock was breathing deeply, focusing his thoughts. Stapleton follows John as he heads for the door.  
"His what?" She mumbled to John.   
"Oh, his mind palace. It's a memory technique – a sort of mental map. You plot a map with a location – it doesn't have to be a real place – and then you deposit memories there that ... Theoretically, you can never forget anything; all you have to do is find your way back to it."  
"So this imaginary location can be anything – a house or a street."  
"Yeah."  
"But he said "palace". He said it was a palace."  
"Yeah, well, he would, wouldn't he?" John looked back towards you and Sherlock for a moment.  
He led her out of the room. 

Sherlock gazed ahead of himself, out of it.  
You decided to retreat to your own mind palace. Your mind turned inwards as you walked through your memories unearthing everything you could recall in connection with the word "Liberty". As you accessed different examples of the word and found them unsuitable, you physically flicks them away with your hands and pulled in new variations before brushing those aside. The word "hound" creeps into your mind once more and drifts across it as you temporarily give up on "Liberty" and shifts to "In", adding various letters onto the word to form new ones like "Inn", "India", "Ingolstadt"  
Flicking that line of thought away, you started calling up images of large dogs, running through various breeds and temporarily being distracted by the image of Elvis Presley starting to sing “Hound Dog”. Irritated, you brushed that aside and tried to pull in all three words – Liberty, In, Hound – simultaneously and suddenly your eyes snap open and Sherlock jolted three times as if he’s being repeatedly struck by lightning as the words finally crash into place:   
Liberty,  
Indiana,  
H.O.U.N.D.   
He sank back on his seat for a moment, then you both stand up and head out of the lab.


	28. The Hounds Of Baskerville

Tw- Su*c*de attempt

Stapleton led your trio along a corridor and used her card to swipe you into the area leading to Major Barrymore's office. As you all go into the room, Sherlock pointed back to the door they just came through.   
"John."  
"Yeah, I'm on it." He turned back to keep an eye on the door as Stapleton went over to a computer and sat down in front of it.   
"Project HOUND. Must have read about it and stored it away. An experiment in a CIA facility in Liberty, Indiana." You said, standing behind Stapleton as she typed her User ID onto the computer, then added her password. A request to "Enter Search String" came up and she looks up at you who dictated the letters.  
"H, O, U, N, D." She typed in the letters and hit Enter. A message popped up saying "NO ACCESS. CIA Classified" and requesting an authorisation code.  
"That's as far as my access goes, I'm afraid."  
"Well, there must be an override and password." You frowned.  
"I imagine so, but that'd be Major Barrymore's." Sherlock spun around and walks into Barrymore's office.   
"Password, password, password." He mumbled. Switching on the lights in the room he sat down at the desk.   
"He sat here when he thought it up." Folding his hands in front of his mouth, he slowly spun a full circle on the chair, looking around the office as he goes. Stapleton and you walked to the doorway.  
"Describe him to me."  
"You've seen him." The female doctor shrugged.  
"But describe him." Sherlock urged.  
"Er, he's a bloody martinet, a throw-back, the sort of man they'd have sent into Suez."  
"Good, excellent. Old-fashioned, traditionalist; not the sort that would use his children's names as a password." He gestured towards the drawings that Barrymore's children have done for him and which he has pinned on the board above his desk.   
"So he loves his job; proud of it and this is work-related, so what's at eye level?" You said. He rapidly scanned around everything in the room without altering the angle of his eyes. He gestured to the right.   
"Books." He turned to the left. "Jane's Defence Weekly – bound copies." He looked to the right again and at the subject matter of some of the books on the bookshelf.   
"Hannibal; Wellington; Rommel; Churchill's "History of the English-Speaking Peoples" – all four volumes." He stood up and looked at a bronze bust on a shelf.  
"Churchill – well, he's fond of Churchill." He looked back to the bookcases again. "Copy of "The Downing Street Years"; one, two, three, four, five separate biographies of Thatcher." He looked down to a framed photograph on the desk of a man in uniform standing with his teenage son.   
"Mid nineteen eighties at a guess. Father and son: Barrymore senior." He looked to the uniform of the older man. "Medals: Distinguished Service Order." He turned to John.  
"That date? I'd say Falklands veteran."  
"Right. So Thatcher's looking a more likely bet than Churchill." He walked out of the office and headed back towards the computer.  
"So that's the password?"  
"No. With a man like Major Barrymore, only first name terms would do." Leaning down to the keyboard, he started to type Margaret Thatcher's first name into the "Auth code" box but stopped as he reaches the penultimate letter, narrowed his eyes and deleted everything back to the first letter, then retyped it as "Maggie". Looking into the screen and gritting his teeth ever so slightly, he hit Enter. The computer beeped happily and announces "OVERRIDE 300/421 ACCEPTED. Loading ..."  
John retreated from the door, to look at the screen. After a slight pause information began to stream across the screen as everything related to Project H.O.U.N.D. became available. Sherlock's concentration was intense as he took it all in and focused on certain phrases like "extreme suggestibility", "fear and stimulus", "conditioned terror", "aerosol dispersal". A photograph appeared of the project team posing happily together and you identified the five project leaders amongst the larger group: Elaine Dyson, Mary Uslowski, Rick Nader, Jack O'Mara and Leonard Hansen. Clearing the photo from the screen, Sherlock rearranged the names into another order: Leonard Hansen Jack O'Mara Mary Uslowski Rick Nader Elaine Dyson Standing beside him, Doctor Stapleton finally begins to understand.  
"HOUND." She stared in growing horror at the screen as more information from the project appeared and words and phrases were highlighted such as "Paranoia", "Severe frontal lobe damage", "Blood-brain" "Gross cranial trauma", "Dangerous acceleration", "Multiple homicide", accompanied by photographs of some of the subjects of the project screaming insanely.   
"Jesus." John mumbled sadly.  
Sherlock still scanned the information as it flew across the screen  
"Project HOUND: a new deleriant drug which rendered its users incredibly suggestible. They wanted to use it as an anti-personnel weapon to totally disorientate the enemy using fear and stimulus; but they shut it down and hid it away in nineteen eighty-six."  
"Because of what it did to the subjects they tested it on." Stapleton said, disgusted by the photos.  
"And what they did to others. Prolonged exposure drove them insane – made them almost uncontrollably aggressive."  
"So someone's been doing it again – carrying on the experiments?"  
"Attempting to refine it, perhaps, for the last twenty years." You added.  
"Who?" The scientist asked.  
John nodded at the screen, indicating the names of the project leaders.  
"Those names mean anything to you?"  
"No, not a thing..."  
"Five principal scientists, twenty years ago." Sherlock sighed. He pulled up the photograph of the team and began zooming in on individuals within it. The closer image showed that they were all wearing identical sweatshirts. Looming out of a diamond pattern in the centre of the sweatshirts was a large snarling wolf's head and the legend "H.O.U.N.D." is printed underneath. There is some smaller text underneath but you couldn't see what it said. Sherlock continued to zoom in and out of the photo to look more closely at the faces.   
"Maybe our friend's somewhere in the back of the picture – someone who was old enough to be there at the time of the experiments in 1986 ..." He stopped as he sees a face he recognises, and rolls his eyes a little as he realised the truth.  
"Maybe somebody who says "cell phone" because of time spent in America. You remember, John?"  
"Mmm-hmm." You had a brief flashback to Doctor Frankland giving a card to Sherlock and saying, "Here's my, er, cell number." You sighed.  
"He gave us his number in case we needed him."  
"Oh my God. Bob Frankland. But Bob doesn't even work on ... I mean, he's a virologist. This was chemical warfare." Doctor Stapleton stared at the screen in blank horror.  
"It's where he started, though ... and he's never lost the certainty, the obsession that that drug really could work. Nice of him to give us his number." You smiled. Sherlock reached into his pocket and took out Bob's card.   
"Let's arrange a little meeting."  
He walked away from the computer. You walked closer to it and looking at the last image – close-up of one of the sweatshirts. Stitched below the "H.O.U.N.D." legend was the name of the American town and state where the project was based: "Liberty, In".

Just then John's phone began to ring. He dug it out of his pocket and frowned at the number on the screen, apparently not recognising it. He answered.  
"Hello?" Initially the only sound you can hear is a woman crying.  
"Who's this?"  
"You've got to find Henry." The woman sobbed. John spun around to Sherlock.   
lIt's Louise Mortimer. Louise, what's wrong?"   
"Henry was ... was remembering; then ... he tried..." Her voice was tearful. She gasped.  
"He's got a gun. He went for the gun and tried to ..."   
"What?" The woman broke down in tears again.  
"He's gone. You've got to stop him. I don't know what he might do."  
"Where-where are you?" John urged  
"His house. I'm okay, I'm okay."  
"Right: stay there. We'll get someone to you, okay?"  
Lowering his phone, he began to text.   
"Henry?" Sherlock asked.  
"He's attacked her."  
"Gone?"  
"Mmm."  
Sherlock hit a speed dial on his own phone.  
"There's only one place he'll go to: back to where it all started. Lestrade. Get to the Hollow. ... Dewer's Hollow, now. And bring a gun."

You, Sherlock and John raced across the unlevel terrain in the Land Rover. Not long afterwards Sherlock pulled up where the woods began and you all get out and continue on foot. You spotted Henry walking briskly across the moors towards the woods surrounding Dewer's Hollow, the pistol still in his hand. Henry reached the lip of the Hollow and began to make his way down into the misty valley. Reaching the bottom he slowed down and stumbled slowly forward, wandering around vaguely for a moment before coming to a halt.   
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Dad." Henry said softly. Squatting down, he brung the pistol up and opened his mouth as he aimed the muzzle towards it.   
"No, Henry, no! No!" You shouted, scrambling down the slope. Henry stood up and stumbled backwards, waving the pistol vaguely in your direction. His voice was high-pitched and hysterical.  
"Get back. Get – get away from me!"   
"Easy, Henry. Easy. Just relax." John held his hands up.  
"I know what I am. I know what I tried to do!"  
"Just put the gun down. It's okay." You urged.  
"No, no, I know what I am!" His voice was hoarse with anguish.  
"Yes, I'm sure you do, Henry. It's all been explained to you, hasn't it – explained very carefully." Sherlock was as reassuring as he'd probably ever sound.  
"What?" Confusion flitted across his face  
"Someone needed to keep you quiet; needed to keep you as a child to reassert the dream that you'd both clung on to, because you had started to remember." He began to step closer to the young man. "Remember now, Henry. You've got to remember what happened here when you were a little boy." Henry's gun hand began to droop momentarily but then he raised it again, his face full of his struggle to understand.  
"I thought it had got my dad – the hound. I thought ..." He lost control and began to scream in anguish. "Oh Je... oh Jesus, I don't – I don't know any more!" Sobbing, he bent forward and aimed the muzzle into his mouth again. John lurched forward towards him.  
"No, Henry! Henry, for God's sake!"  
"Henry, remember. "Liberty In." Two words; two words a frightened little boy saw here twenty years ago." Sherlock said, urgency seeping through his voice. Henry began to calm a little but still remains hunched over with the gun's muzzle against his mouth.   
"You'd started to piece things together, remember what really happened here that night. It wasn't an animal, was it, Henry?" You soothed. Henry started to straighten up, blinking. "Not a monster." Henry turned to look at you. "A man."  
Henry's eyes widened as the memories began to come. In brief flashes he started to relive the truth. He gaped at you as the truth reasserts itself in his mind.  
"You couldn't cope. You were just a child, so you rationalised it into something very different. But then you started to remember, so you had to be stopped; driven out of your mind so that no-one would believe a word that you said."   
Quietly John stepped forward, holding out his hand encouragingly towards Henry as Greg Lestrade arrived and calls out as he trotted down the slope towards them. "Sherlock!"  
"Okay, it's okay, mate." John said softly as he carefully took the pistol from Henry's fingers.   
Henry spoke tearfully to you.  
"But we saw it: the hound, last night. We s... we, we, we did, we saw ..."  
"Yeah, but there was a dog, Henry, leaving footprints, scaring witnesses, but it was nothing more than an ordinary dog. We all saw it – saw it as our drugged minds wanted us to see it. Fear and stimulus; that's how it works." You said, looking over to Sherlock with a nod. Henry looked to him and Sherlock affirmed what you had said with a slight nod of his own. Henry stared at him in confusion. Sherlock returned his look sympathetically.   
"There never was any monster."   
An anguished howl rings out in the woods above them. Everyone's head snapped up and John and Greg aimed their flashlights upwards to the top of the Hollow where a low shape could be seen slowly stalking along the rim and snarling.  
"Sherlock ..." Sherlock stared up in disbelief as Henry turns to him, horrified.  
"No." He began to wail in panic. "No, no, no, no!"  
He backed away as you tried simultaneously to hold out a calming hand towards him while keeping your own torch shining up towards the creature above them.  
"Henry, Henry ..." you tried to soothe him once more.  
"Sherlock ..." John hissed. The creature continued to slink along the rim of the Hollow as Henry began to scream in abject terror. He crumpled to his knees, continually screaming, "No!"   
"Henry!" You shouted, trying to bring him back to his senses. The hound turned towards the Hollow and looked down at everyone, snarling viciously. Its eyes glowing in the torchlight as Henry continued to wail.  
Lestrade stared up at the rim.  
"Shit!" He cursed.  
John turned and shines his torch into his face.  
"Greg, are you seeing this?" Lestrade glanced at him momentarily and his expression answered the question. Sherlock took a quick look around to the inspector to see his face before turning back to stare up at the hound.  
"Right: he is not drugged, so what's that? What is it?!" As Henry continued to wail behind them, You screwed your eyes shut for a brief moment, trying to handle the overload in your mind. You stared upwards again.  
"All right! It's still here ..." You panted heavily for a moment before pulling yourself together "... but it's just a dog. Henry! It's nothing more than an ordinary dog!"   
The hound didn't seem to think so as it raised its head and let out a long terrifying howl.  
Lestrade stumbled backwards. "Oh my God." He muttered. The hound turned and leapt a short way down the slope, its eyes flashing red in the torchlight. 

"Oh, Christ!" Lestrade practically squealed. You stared at it as it stopped again, its red glowing eyes now clearly visible as it opened its mouth and revealed a mouthful of long pointed teeth that you would never see on any dog. Its snarl was completely petrifying. Henry had fallen silent, gazing up at it as if he knew that it was going to kill him shortly. You were still having trouble trying to believe what your own eyes were telling you. You sensed some movement behind you. You looked over your shoulder to see a tall human figure through the mist. The new arrival was wearing a breathing mask with a clear visor over his face. You turned and rushed towards him, grabbing at the mask and ripping it upwards to fully reveal the man's face ... and Jim Moriarty grins manically back at you. You stared at him in appalled horror, slowly retreating backwards, stumbling.  
"No!" You shouted. Behind you the hound growls ominously again. Jim's expression became more intense and murderous but then his head began to distort and flail about, morphing between Jim's face and someone else's so quickly that was impossible to keep up with the changes. You grimaced, groaning at the insanity going on in front of you as Jim's face kept reasserting itself.   
"It's not you! You're not here!" You said frantically, fighting off tears of utter terror.

Grabbing at the figure, you spun him around and then headbutted him in the face aggressively. The figure crumpled slightly and raised his hand to his face as he straightened up ... and now the man in front of you was Bob Frankland. You clung onto his jacket, your breathing panicked and frantic ... but then as you turned your head to one side and looked at the mist surrounding them as suddenly it all began to make sense.  
"The fog!" You exclaimed.  
"What?" John asked, still aiming his torch up at the hound.  
"It's the fog! The drug: it's in the fog! Aerosol dispersal – that's what it said in those records. Project HOUND – it's the fog! A chemical minefield!" You insisted. Greg instantly threw his arm across his face, trying to stop himself from breathing too much of the mist. The hound stalked closer to the group, snarling.  
"For God's sake, kill it! Kill it!" Frankland pleaded.  
The hound's movements became more jittery as if it's winding itself up to attack. Greg aimed his pistol and fired three times at it. His bullets flew past it and it flinched momentarily but then rose up and leaps towards them. John's aim was truer and his bullets hit the hound accurately and threw it backwards as it squealed in pain and crashes to the ground, unmoving. As John and Greg watched it anxiously for any signs of movement, Sherlock ran over to Henry and pushes him towards the hound.   
"Look at it, Henry."  
"No, no, no!" Henry dug his heels into the ground stubbornly, but Sherlock shoved him forward determinedly.  
"Come on, look at it!" He bullied the young man forward until they could both clearly see it lying on the ground. In Sherlock's torchlight it was clearly nothing more than a huge dog. Henry stared at it for a moment and then turned back to where Frankland was still holding his injured face while Greg had his hands over his mouth as he tried to draw breath and come to terms with what he just experienced. Henry glared at Frankland.   
"It's just ... you bastard!" Hurling himself at the older man, he screamed with rage. "You bastard!" Bundling him to the ground, he screams into his face as John and Greg ran over and try to pull him off.  
"Twenty years! Twenty years of my life making no sense! Why didn't you just kill me?!"   
Finally the others managed to pull him up off. "Because dead men get listened to. He needed to do more than kill you. He had to discredit every word you ever said about your father, and he had the means right at his feet – a chemical minefield, pressure pads in the ground dosing you up every time that you came back here." He held his arms out wide and spun slowly in a circle as he gestured around the Hollow.   
"Murder weapon and scene of the crime all at once." He laughed with delight. "Oh, this case, Henry! Thank you. It's been brilliant."  
"Sherlock ..." both you and John snapped at him.  
"What?" He looked at you with wide eyes.   
You glared at him pointedly. "Timing."  
"Not good?" He cocked his head.   
"No, no, it's – it's okay. It's fine, because this means ..." He started to step towards Frankland. John moved with him, ready to intervene if he should try to attack him again.  
"... this means that my dad was right." Frankland got up onto his knees as Henry still tried to move towards him. John and Greg both put a gentle hand onto his shoulders to keep him back.   
"He found something out, didn't he, and that's why you'd killed him – because he was right, and he'd found you right in the middle of an experiment." He shouted, tearfully. Frankland got to his feet but before he could say anything there was a savage snarl from behind the group. Everybody spun towards the dog as it whined in pain and got up off the ground. John aimed and fired towards it twice and it toppled down again. 

Frankland took the opportunity of the distraction to turn and run off in the opposite direction. Like the single-minded idiot that he is, Sherlock ran right across John's line of fire, forcing him to lower his pistol, and chased off after the scientist. John turned and follows him up the slope. You sighed, in irritation.   
"Frankland!" Frankland ran through the woods with the three of in hot pursuit, Greg and Henry a little behind.  
"Frankland!" Sherlock called again.   
"Come on, keep up!" Lestrade said to Henry as they run on.  
"It's no use, Frankland!" You called. Reaching the barbed wire fence surrounding the minefield, Frankland didn't hesitate to jump over. His feet tangled in the wire and he fell to the ground on the other side. He jumped up and ran on a few yards but then stopped abruptly as his foot thumped down onto a mine, which made a distinctive clink indicating that he had activated its pressure pad. He stared down at his foot, shining his torch onto the mine underneath and realising that unless he remained completely still and doesn't lift any pressure off it, the mine will blow. As you and the others hurried towards the barbed wire, he raised his head, sighing in resignation and deliberately lifted his foot. You all skidded to a halt and ducked down as a massive explosion ripped into the air. As the blast died down, Henry sunk back against a nearby tree while Sherlock gazed reflectively across the minefield.

John and you sat at one of the outdoor tables. It had been a long night and you had barely slept. Billy brung out a plate containing whatever is the vegetarian equivalent of a full English breakfast and put it on the table in front of him. He placed two slices of toast in front of you.  
"Mmm. Thanks, Billy." John smield. As Billy walks away, Sherlock brung over two mugs and put them down on the table for you and John.   
"So they didn't have it put down, then – the dog."  
John began tucking into his breakfast as Sherlock stood next to him and drinks his own coffee.   
"Obviously. Suppose they just couldn't bring themselves to do it."   
"I see."  
"No you don't." John smiled lightly.   
"No, I don't. Sentiment?"  
"Sentiment!"  
"Oh." He rolled his eyes. He sat down on the bench next to John.  
"Listen: what happened to me in the lab?"   
Sherlock looked at him for a moment, then turned around and reached for a box of sauce sachets, looking worried about how he's ever going to explain all this.   
"D'you want some sauce with that?"  
"I mean, I hadn't been to the Hollow, so how come I heard those things in there? Fear and stimulus, you said."  
Sherlock rummaged through the box of sachets.  
"You must have been dosed with it elsewhere, when you went to the lab, maybe. You saw those pipes – pretty ancient, leaky as a sieve; and they were carrying the gas, so ... Um, ketchup, was it, or brown ...?"   
"Hang on: you thought it was in the sugar." You stated. Sherlock stared at you while trying to maintain a neutral expression. "You were convinced it was in the sugar." Sherlock looked away again.  
"Better get going, actually." He looked at his watch.   
"There's a train that leaves in half an hour, so if you want ..." John turned his head away as he began to realise the horrible truth.  
"Oh God. It was you. You locked me in that bloody lab."  
"I had to. It was an experiment."  
"An experiment?!" John was furious.  
Sherlock looked at people sitting nearby.  
"Shhh." He hushed.  
"I was terrified, Sherlock. I was scared to death." John was quieter, but still furious.  
"thought that the drug was in the sugar, so I put the sugar in your coffee, then I arranged everything with Major Barrymore." John sighed in exasperation.  
"It was all totally scientific, laboratory conditions – well, literally. Well, I knew what effect it had had on a superior mind, so I needed to try it on an average one." John looked up from his plate with a grim expression.  
"You know what I mean."  
John went back to eating.  
"But it wasn't in the sugar."  
"No, well, I wasn't to know you'd already been exposed to the gas."   
"So you got it wrong." John and you shared a smile.  
"No."  
"Mmm. You were wrong. It wasn't in the sugar. You got it wrong."  
"A bit. It won't happen again." Sighing, John continued eating, then looked round.  
"Any long-term effects?"  
"None at all. You'll be fine once you've excreted it. We all will." Sherlock glanced over to you.  
"Think I might have taken care of that already." Sherlock snorted with laughter, then looked across to a nearby table where Gary was pouring coffee for two other customers. He smiled apologetically across to Sherlock, who put his mug on the table and stands up.  
"Where're you going?"  
"Won't be a minute. Gotta see a man about a dog." Smiling down at you and John, he turned and walks away.   
You smiled. You had missed this...


	29. The Hero Of The Reichenbach

In an art gallery, the Director of the gallery was finishing his speech as he stands near a painting.  
"Falls of the Reichenbach, Turner's masterpiece, thankfully recovered owing to the prodigious talent of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."  
The patrons applauded. You stood by Sherlock and John nearby. The Director gave a small gift-wrapped box to Sherlock.   
"A small token of our gratitude." He smiled.  
Sherlock took the box and looked at it.   
"Diamond cufflinks. All my cuffs have buttons." He frowned.  
"He means thank you." You smiled to the director.  
"Do I? He grimaced at you.  
"Just say it."   
"Thank you." He said insincerely to the Director. He stared to walk away but John held him back.   
"Hey."  
Sherlock stopped unwillingly as the press started taking photographs. Later, one of the photographs appeared in a newspaper article headed "Hero of the Reichenbach". The straplines read  
"Turner masterpiece recovered by 'amateur' ; "Scotland Yard embarrased by overlooked clues". The text of the article read: "A Turner masterpiece worth £1.7million that was stolen from an auction house ten days ago has been recovered by an amateur detective from North London. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street has been investigating the art crime simply as a hobby, and yet he was able to follow the trail that lead him to the famous work – a trail that Scotland Yard missed completely. Sherlock Holmes has gained cult following following the publication of his website – The Sci- ..." at which point you had become disinterested and stopped reading. 

A new newspaper article read "Top Banker Kidnapped"

Outside the banker's house, the rescued man was standing with his arms around his wife and young son as the press filmed and photographed them while the three of you stood uncomfortably nearby.  
"Back together with my family after my terrifying ordeal; and we have one person to thank for my deliverance – Sherlock Holmes." As the public applauded, the boy smiled and offers a small gift-wrapped box to Sherlock. He took it and rattled it briefly.  
"Tie pin. I don't wear ties." He whispered to you.  
"Shh." You hushed him.

Your relationship with Sherlock was fixing, but it wasn't quite fixed. You tried to keep ignoring your feelings. Sherlock was right, they were detrimental and just complicated simple thing. The days and weeks merged when you were around each other, solving crime. You enjoyed every minute of it. You had practically moved back in, by this point.

You stretched and padded from your room into the living room. John sat on the sofa reading the papers while Sherlock, wearing his blue dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, stomped across the room and threw the Daily Star onto the pile of newspapers on the coffee table.   
"'Boffin'. 'Boffin Sherlock Holmes'!" Sherlock protested indignantly.  
"Everybody gets one."  
"One what?" Sherlock furrowed his brow in displeasure.  
"Tabloid nickname: 'SuBo'; 'Nasty Nick'. Shouldn't worry – I'll probably get one soon. You too, (y/n)."  
"Page five, column six, first sentence." John turned to the relevant page. Sherlock walked over to the fireplace, picked up the deerstalker, holding it up and punching it angrily. You smirked.  
"Why is it always the hat photograph?"  
John glanced at the newspaper article and frowned in disgust.  
"'Bachelor John Watson'?"  
"What sort of hat is it anyway?"  
"'Bachelor'?" What the hell are they implying?"  
Sherlock held up the hat and twisted it back and forth rapidly.   
"Is it a cap? Why has it got two fronts?"  
"It's a deerstalker." You smiled as you sipped on your coffee. John read more of the article out loud. "'Frequently seen in the company of bachelor John Watson ...'"   
"You stalk a deer with a hat? What are you gonna do – throw it?"  
John turned his attention to another part of the article  
"... confirmed bachelor John Watson!"   
"Some sort of death frisbee?"   
"And "(y/n) Watson may be the one to steal our favourite sleuth's heart." Okay, this is too much. We need to be more careful." You frowned as John grinned at you.   
"It's got flaps ... ear flaps. It's an ear hat." He accurately skimmed the hat across the room to John, who didn't even have to lift his hand to catch it.  
"What do you mean, "more careful"?"  
"I mean this isn't a deerstalker now; it's a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean that you're not exactly a private detective any more." You held your thumb and forefinger an inch apart.  
"You're this far from famous."  
"Oh, it'll pass." He slumped down into his armchair and folded his hands in the prayer position in front of his mouth.  
"It'd better pass. The press will turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they'll turn on you." John frowned. Sherlock lowered his hands and looked more closely at John.   
"It really bothers you."  
"What?"  
"What people say."  
"Yes." John nodded.  
"About me? I don't understand – why would it upset you?" John held his gaze for a moment, then looked away.  
"Just try to keep a low profile. Find yourself a little case this week. Stay out of the news."

A phone in the living room trilled a text alert. Sherlock sat at the table in the kitchen, looking into his microscope. John came along the corridor leading from the bathroom with wet hair, wearing a bathrobe and towelling the back of his neck dry.   
"It's your phone."  
"Mm. Keeps doing that." He hummed disinterestedly. John walked into the living room past the mannequin in a suit which was hanging by its neck from the ceiling and sat down in his chair, picking up a newspaper. The body sways gently in the breeze.  
"So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?" You asked with a smirk as you stirred your drink.  
John chuckled lightly.  
"Oh. Henry Fishgard never committed suicide." He picked up an old hardback book from the table and slammed it shut in a flurry of dust before going back to his microscope.  
"Bow Street Runners: missed everything."  
"Pressing case, is it?"  
"They're all pressing 'til they're solved." Sherlock sighed.  
Sherlock's phone trilled another text alert. John lowered his newspaper with a sigh.   
"I'll get it, shall I?" John asked tetchily.  
He got up and walked over to the phone, picking it up and checking the message as Sherlock continued to look into his microscope and you sipped quietly on your drink. John's face slowly filled with shock. He turned and took the phone to the kitchen, holding it out to Sherlock.  
"Here."   
You got up and followed him.  
"Not now, I'm busy." Sherlock didn't even look up from the microscope.  
"Sherlock ..." John urged.  
"Not now."  
You took the phone from John to look at the message that had got your brother so distressed.

Come and play. Tower Hill.   
Jim Moriarty x.

"He's back." You felt all colour drain from your face as a wave of nausea washed over you. Sherlock lifted his head and took the phone off of you. Sherlock's eyes widened and he sunk back on his chair and gazed into space. You blinked in disbelief. 

The three of you had arrived at the Tower in a flash. You stood watching the recorded security footage taken from behind Jim as he stuck the gum onto the glass. He then took a tiny diamond from his pocket and pushed it into the gum. It was easy to kiss for anyone but you and Sherlock.  
"That glass is tougher than anything."  
"Not tougher than crystallised carbon. He used a diamond." You pointed to the gun on the screen.  
Greg adjusted the footage, which shifted to a recording taken from the other side of the glass. The footage also played into reverse, showing the glass rising back up into place before it shattered. As Jim pulled the fire extinguisher back again and the glass becomes whole, the message which he scrawled onto it became clear. He deliberately wrote the words backwards on the glass so that they would be seen from the camera on the other side of the case. With the smiley face inside the "O", the message reads: GET SHERLOCK   
John turned and stared at Sherlock but his eyes were fixed on the screen. You rubbed your eyes in horror. 

The "Daily Express" had somehow obtained the security image with the message clear on the glass, and had run it on its front page with the headline: "Crime of the Century?"

Questions are being asked in parliament as to how the Tower of London, Pentonville Prison and the Bank of England were all broken into at the same time by the same man – James Moriarty. // There are unconfirmed reports that Scotland Yard's favourite sleuth Mr Sherlock Holmes has been called in to help the team piece together the most audacious crime ... Turn to page 5

You sighed and put the paper down. John stood in front of the mirror in the living room. He was wearing a suit and finishes tying his tie before putting his jacket on. You were wearing a white blouse and a black pencil skirt- the most "professional" thing you owned.  
Near the sofa, Sherlock was buttoning up his own jacket. Sherlock led the way downstairs and came to the front door, then stopped and turns to the side to allow John to pass him and reach out toward the door.   
"Ready?" John asked the two of you.  
"Yes..."   
Bracing himself, John opened the door. Police officers were trying to hold back the large crowd of journalists who immediately started photographing the trio and calling out questions as the police cleared the way and allow the boys and you through to the waiting police car. You get into the back and the car pulled away and raced off with its sirens wailing.

"Remember ..." John started.  
"Yes." Sherlock cut him off instantly, clearly not wanting to listen to his advice. You chuckled slightly at his childishness.  
"Remember ..."  
"Yes." The tall detective shot back even quicker. John looked away in frustration, then goes for broke and spoke quickly.  
"Remember what they told you: don't try to be clever..."  
"No." Sherlock spoke over him.  
"... and please, just keep it simple and brief."  
"God forbid the star witness at the trial should come across as intelligent."  
"Star?" You scoffed.  
"'Intelligent', fine; let's give 'smart-arse' a wide berth." You smirked at John as he spoke.  
"I'll just be myself." Sherlock said after a moment of silence.  
"Are you listening to me?!" John snapped irritably.

Sherlock had been called to give his evidence and is standing in the witness box. Jim was in the dock opposite him, still nonchalantly chewing on his gum. John and you sat in the public gallery upstairs, overlooking Sherlock.   
"Let's hope he doesn't screw this up, shall we?"  
John sighed.  
"They should've put me on the stand instead, less chance of a screw up due to showing off..." you sighed. John nodded in agreement.  
"A "consulting criminal"." The prosecuting barrister started.  
"Yes."   
"Your words. Can you expand on that answer?"  
"James Moriarty is for hire." Sherlock elaborated.  
"A tradesman?"  
"Yes."  
"But not the sort who'd fix your heating."   
"No, the sort who'd plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I'm sure he'd make a pretty decent job of your boiler." There was muffled laughter from some people in the court, and the prosecuting barrister tried to hide her smile. You and John both looked at each other and groaned simultaneously.  
"Would you describe him as ..."  
"Leading." Sherlock interrupted.  
"What?" The barrister blinked.  
"Can't do that. You're leading the witness."   
He looked towards the defending barrister. "He'll object and the judge will uphold." The judge looked exasperated – clearly this wasn't the first time Sherlock had done this during his evidence.  
"Mr. Holmes."  
"Ask me how. How would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him? Do they not teach you this?"  
"Mr. Holmes, we're fine without your help."   
"How would you describe this man – his character?"  
"First mistake." He raised his eyes and locked his gaze onto Jim. "James Moriarty isn't a man at all – he's a spider; a spider at the centre of a web – a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances."   
Jim almost imperceptibly nodded his head in approval of the description. The prosecuting barrister cleared her throat awkwardly.   
"And how long ..."  
Sherlock closed his eyes in exasperation.  
"No, no, don't-don't do that. That's really not a good question."  
"Mr. Holmes." The judge interjected angrily.  
"How long have I known him? Not really your best line of enquiry. We met twice, five minutes in total. I pulled a gun; he tried to blow me up. I felt we had a special something." He said sarcastically.  
Jim raised his eyebrows in an "ooh!" expression. "Miss Sorrel, are you seriously claiming this man is an expert, after knowing the accused for just five minutes?" The judge asked.  
"Two minutes would have made me an expert. Five was ample."  
"Mr. Holmes, that's a matter for the jury." The judge frowned.  
"Oh, really?" His eyes turned towards the jury box. John raised his hand to his head in an all-too-recognisable "oh, shit, NO!" gesture which you mirrored. Sherlock turned the full force of his gaze onto the twelve people sitting in the jury box and deduced all of them within a couple of seconds.  
"One librarian; two teachers; two high-pressured jobs, probably the City." He focused on a woman at the far left of the front row. She had a notebook resting on the ledge in front of her and was writing in shorthand. "The foreman's a medical secretary, trained abroad judging by her shorthand."  
"Mr. Holmes!"  
"Seven are married and two are having an affair – with each other, it would seem! Oh, and they've just had tea and biscuits." He turned to the judge. "Would you like to know who ate the wafer?"  
"Mr. Holmes. You've been called here to answer Miss Sorrel's questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess." The judge raised his voice angrily. Sherlock took a breath but can't help smiling a little at the acknowledgement of his 'intellectual prowess'. You stared at him sternly.  
"Keep your answers brief and to the point. Anything else will be treated as contempt. Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes without showing off?" Sherlock pauses as he gives the question some thought, then opens his mouth.  
The answer to that is a hard NO. You sighed

Shortly afterwards, a prison officer marched Sherlock into one of the cells under the courts and shoves him inside, slamming the door shut behind him. 

Some time later Sherlock was being released. As he signed for his personal property, John and you stood beside him leaning back on the desk with his arms folded.   
"What did I say? I said, 'Don't get clever.'" Your brother snapped.  
"I can't just turn it on and off like a tap." Taking the bag of items from the custody officer, he turned to you both. "Well?"  
"Well what?"  
"You were there for the whole thing, up in the gallery, start to finish."  
"Like you said it would be... he sat on his backside, never even stirred." You said, recalling watching Moriarty's defence barrister.  
"Moriarty's not mounting any defence..."

The boys and you walked into the living room.   
"Bank of England, Tower of London, Pentonville. Three of the most secure places in the country and six weeks ago Moriarty breaks in, no-one knows how or why." You sit down in Sherlock's armchair as he began to pace.  
"All we know is..."  
"... he ended up in custody." He stopped and turns to John. John took a breath.  
"Don't do that."   
"Do what?"  
"The look."  
"Look?" Sherlock blinked  
"You're doing the look again." Your brother gestured to Sherlock's face.  
"Well, I can't see it, can I?" John pointed to the mirror on the wall as if Sherlock was idiot for not realising it's there. Sherlock turned his head and looks at his reflection.  
"It's my face." He said, looking confused.  
"Yes, and it's doing a thing. You're doing a "we all know what's really going on here" face."   
"Well, we do."  
"No. I don't, which is why I find The Face so annoying."  
"If Moriarty wanted the Jewels, he'd have them. If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's still in a prison cell right now is because he chose to be there." You mumbled.  
Sherlock started to pace again.   
"Somehow this is part of his scheme."

The next day, Sherlock decided you and John would go back to the Old Bailey without him.  
"Mr. Crayhill, can we have your first witness?" The judge called out. The defending barrister rose to his feet.  
"Your Honour, we're not calling any witnesses."   
There were cries of surprise around the court, and you and John– sitting in the public gallery – frowned in confusion at each other.   
"I don't follow. You've entered a plea of Not Guilty."  
"Nevertheless, my client is offering no evidence. The defence rests." He sat down. Jim purses his lips ruefully at the judge, then turned and looked up to you, shrugging at you. At that moment, you had never wanted to commit murder more.  
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. James Moriarty stands accused of several counts of attempted burglary, crimes which – if he's found guilty – will elicit a very long custodial sentence; and yet his legal team has chosen to offer no evidence whatsoever to support their plea. I find myself in the unusual position of recommending a verdict wholeheartedly. You must find him guilty." The judge stated. He looked directly at the jury. "You must find him guilty!"

The court adjourned at 10:42. At 10:50 John and you sat on a bench just outside the courtroom when the Clerk of the Court hurried out of a side room.  
"They're coming back." He said to you.  
You looked at the time on your phone.   
"That's six minutes..." you said, considering how long it took the jury to leave the court and go to their allocated room.  
"Surprised it took them that long, to be honest. There's a queue for the loo."  
He hurried into the court. You stood up, taking a moment to brace yourself and then followed in. 

A few minutes later the Clerk rose to his feet in the courtroom and turns to face the jury.  
"Have you reached a verdict on which you all agree?"  
One of the jury members lowered his head and shakes it in tiny despairing motions as the foreman got to her feet and stared at the Clerk unhappily.   
"We find James Moriarty, not guilty."  
Your face fell.


	30. Hansel And Gretel

You and John sat in a small cafe, chatting over some coffee.  
John checked in his wallet after paying.  
"I'm gonna have to draw out some cash." He frowned. You nodded.  
"Yeah, me too." You looked into your own empty purse.

You crossed the street to a NatWest cashpoint machine and John inserted his card. Typing in his PIN, he then selected a transaction. After a few seconds he was greeted with the onscreen message: There is a problem with your card  
Please wait   
John grimaced and a second later a new message appeared.   
Thank you for your patience.   
A moment later the message added-  
John   
John frowned at you, which you returned. Behind you a black car pulled up to the kerb and stopped. John turned and looks at it, then turns back to you, sighing in exasperation.   
You both climbed in, allowing yourselves to be driven to an elegant white painted building.

You both headed inside and enters a large room which – back when the building used to be a house – would probably be a drawing room. A large marble fireplace surrounded an unlit fire and the walls had heavy wooden panelling and ornate white plaster coving. Mycroft sat in the room with him and poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter. John walked to a small table and picked up a copy of "The Sun" which was lying on it. He brandished it at Mycroft.  
“You read this stuff?”  
“Caught my eye.”   
John sat down in one of the armchairs.  
“Mmm-hmm.”   
“Saturday: they're doing a big exposé. Lovely to see you (y/n).” You sighed.  
“I’ve not seen you since you slapped my brother and stormed off.”  
John blinked at you in surprise.  
“You slapped Sherlock?” He asked with a small smile. You shot Mycroft a warning look to shut him up.  
“Yeah, long story.”  
John shook his head with a chuckle then turned his attention to the announcement at the top of the front page.   
“‘SHERLOCK: THE SHOCKING TRUTH’ mClose Friend Richard Brook Tells All’". John read out loud.  
The article revealed that it was an Exclusive from Kitty Riley.   
“I'd love to know where she got her information.” You chuckled.  
“Someone called Brook. Recognise the name?”   
John lowered the paper and shook his head.   
“School friend, maybe?” Mycroft laughed in a snide way.   
“Of Sherlock's?” He chuckled again. “But that's not why I asked you here.” He walked to a side table and picked up several folders. Returning to you and John he handed you one of them. You opened the file and looked at the photograph on the top page.  
“Who's that?”  
“Don't know him?”  
“No.”  
“Never seen his face before?”  
“Umm ... by your expression, I’m guessing that I should’ve.” You sighed.  
“He's taken a flat in Baker Street, two doors down from you.”  
“Hmm! I was thinking of doing a drinks thing for the neighbours.” John smiled sarcastically up at Mycroft who looked back at him straight-faced.  
“Not sure you'll want to.” He nodded towards the folder. “Sulejmani. Albanian hit squad. Expertly-trained killer living less than twenty feet from your front door.”   
“It's a great location. Jubilee line's handy.”   
“John ...”  
“What's it got to do with us?” John looked over to you briefly.  
“Dyachenko, Ludmila.” Mycroft walked over and gave John another of the files. He sat down opposite you both. John let out a long tired groan as he opened the file and looked at the photograph inside before frowning a little.  
“Um, actually, I think I have seen her.”  
“Of course you have.” You smirked at him.  
“Russian killer. She's taken the flat opposite.”  
John frowned, now seeming a little nervous.  
“Okay ... I'm sensing a pattern here.”  
“In fact, four top international assassins relocate to within spitting distance of two hundred and twenty-one B. Anything you care to share with me?” Mycroft handed you the rest of the files. Looking at the photographs of the other assassins, John chuckled, then looked up at Mycroft.  
“I'm moving?!”   
Mycroft looked back at him unamused, then narrowed his eyes.  
“It's not hard to guess the common denominator, is it?”  
“You think this is Moriarty?” John asked, brows raised.  
“He promised Sherlock he'd come back.”  
“If this was Moriarty, we'd be dead already.” You stated plainly.  
“If not Moriarty, then who?”  
“Why don't you talk to Sherlock if you're so concerned about him?” John scoffed.  
Mycroft looked away and toyed with the glass on the table beside him. John rolled his eyes.  
“Oh God, don't tell me.”  
“Too much history between us, John. Old scores; resentments.”  
“Nicked all his Smurfs? Broke his Action Man?” You joked darkly. Mycroft glowered at him. John couldn’t help but laugh, then pulled himself together and put the files onto the table beside him.  
“Finished.” You whispered after pulling yourself together. You stands up and turns to leave the room.  
“We all know what's coming, Watsons.”  
John stopped and turned back, clearly now struggling to control his anger.  
“Moriarty is obsessed. He's sworn to destroy his only rival.”  
“So you want us to watch out for your brother because he won't accept your help.” John said tightly.  
“If it's not too much trouble.” He directed a smile at you both but it quickly faded and his expression became more threatening. John held his gaze, then looked away, nodding in a resigned way and turned to go to the door again.

A taxi dropped you and your brother off opposite the flat. A you crossed the road, you couldn’t help but be aware of people passing by in the street, wondering if any of them were the assassins keeping an eye on the flat. You reached the door which stood wide open. You saw that a brown envelope had been left on the doorstep. There was nothing written on the front but the back had a large old fashioned wax seal on it. John picked it up and opened one corner of the envelope and put his finger in to slide it along the edge and sliced the rest of the envelope open. Immediately a lot of brown dust, with some larger chunks of brown something, tumbled out. As he caught some of the debris and looked at it, a man’s Cockney voice speaks behind you.  
“‘Scuse, mate.”  
“Oh.” You stepped aside as a heavily tattooed bald-headed man wearing jeans and a black vest carried a stepladder into the hallway. John followed him in, putting the envelope into his pocket as he did. You trotted upstairs and went into the living room. “Sherlock, something weird ...” You began. You stopped as you saw that Greg and Sally were in the room with Sherlock.  
“What’s going on?” You trailed off.  
“Kidnapping.” Sherlock said plainly as he moved over to the table. He sat down and started to type on the laptop.  
“Rufus Bruhl, the ambassador to the U.S.”  
“He’s in Washington, isn’t he?” John asked.  
“Not him – his children, Max and Claudette, age seven and nine.” Sally showed John and you photographs of the two children.  
“They’re at St Aldate’s.”  
“Posh boarding place down in Surrey?” You recalled. Lestrade nodded.  
“The school broke up; all the other boarders went home – just a few kids remained, including those two.” Lestrade turned to Sherlock, who was still typing.  
“The kids have vanished. The ambassador’s asked for you personally.” Sherlock was already on his feet and heading out of the door with his coat over his arm.   
“The Reichenbach Hero.” Donovan remarked sarcastically. Sherlock kept going, ignoring her. After a moment Greg followed him out.   
“Isn’t it great to be working with a celebrity!” He smiled.  
“Yeah he might be a celebrity, but he’s still an arsehole.” You chuckled slightly.

Greg’s car drove into the grounds of the boarding school and pulled up outside the front entrance. Two police cars were already there and a woman stood in front of one of them, leaning against the bonnet wearing a shock blanket around her shoulders and crying while a uniformed female police officer spoke reassuringly to her. A man, probably a plain clothed police officer, was talking to her but walked away as Greg, Sally, the boys and you got out of the car and approached. The woman blew her nose on her handkerchief.  
“It’s all right.” A female officer soothed her.  
“Miss Mackenzie, House Mistress. Go easy.” Lestrade quietly said to Sherlock. He stayed back and let Sherlock and you walk over to the woman without him.   
“Miss Mackenzie, you’re in charge of pupil welfare, yet you left this place wide open last night.” His voice rose angrily. “What are you: an idiot, a drunk or a criminal?” He grabbed the blanket and abruptly pulled it from around her shoulders. She gasped in fear as he glared furiously at her.  
“Now quickly, tell me!”   
“All the doors and windows were properly bolted. No-one – not even me – went into their room last night. You have to believe me!” Miss Mackenzie yelped tearfully, cringing in terror. Sherlock’s demeanour instantly changed and he smiled reassuringly and gently took hold of her shoulders.  
“I do. I just wanted you to speak quickly.”  
He looked at the nearby police officers as he turned and walked away.   
“Miss Mackenzie will need to breathe into a bag now.” You rolled your eyes at Sherlock. She sobs in distress and the female police officer hurries over to comfort her.  
“So much for ‘go easy.’” You batted his arm.

Inside the school, Sherlock led everyone into one of the dormitories.  
“Six grand a term, you’d expect them to keep the kids safe for you. You said the other kids had all left on their holidays?” John remarked.  
Sherlock had already looked in a cupboard beside one of the beds and then proceeded to drop to his knees to peer under the bed.  
“They were the only two sleeping on this floor. Absolutely no sign of a break-in.” Lestrade reported.  
Sherlock picked up a lacrosse stick lying on the floor and got to his feet while looking at the stick closely. He briefly wielded it as if using it as a weapon but then apparently decided it wasn’t used in that way and dropped it to the floor again.  
“The intruder must have been hidden inside some place.” Lestrade suggested. Sherlock moved over to a wooden trunk and opened the lid. Amongst the other items inside the trunk he found a large brown envelope with a wax seal on the back which had already been broken as if someone had opened the envelope. Inside sat a large hardback book. Checking the envelope carefully first, he then took the book out and looked at the cover. The book was “Grimm’s Fairy Tales.” He looked along the edges of the book and then riffles the pages quickly. Finding nothing of interest, he looked up.   
“Show me where the brother slept.”

Lestrade led you to another smaller dormitory. You looked around, going to stand beside a bed which is facing the door. The door had a frosted glass pane in it. You looked towards the door while gesturing down to the bed.  
“The boy sleeps there every night, gazing at the only light source outside in the corridor. He’d recognise every shape, every outline, the silhouette of everyone who came to the door.”  
“Okay, so ...?” Lestrade questioned.  
“So someone approaches the door who he doesn’t recognise, an intruder. Maybe he can even see the outline of a weapon.” Leaving you inside the room, he moved outside the door and pulled it almost closed, then raised his hand and pointed his fingers as if they were a gun, showing everyone else how it would be seen through the frosted glass. He pushed the door open and came back into the room.  
“What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room? How would he use them if not to cry out?” He walked around the bed, looking at the boy’s possessions.  
“This little boy; this particular little boy ...” He looked at the bedside table “... who reads all of those spy books. What would he do?”  
“He’d leave a sign.” You responded quickly. Sherlock started sniffing noisily like a dog. He picked up a cricket bat leaning against the nearby cupboard and sniffed along both sides of it. Putting the bat down again he squatted and sniffed around the bedside table, then reached under the bed and found an almost empty glass bottle of linseed oil. He looked up.  
“Get Anderson.”

The room had been darkened as much as possible by closing the wooden shutters over the windows as Sherlock shone an ultraviolet light on the wall beside the boy’s bed where the words “HELP US” had been written on the wall, only now visible in the light. “Linseed oil.”  
“Not much use. Doesn’t lead us to the kidnapper.” “Brilliant, Anderson.” Sherlock said sarcastically.  
“Really?” Anderson looked pleased with himself.  
“Yes. Brilliant impression of an idiot.”   
You pointed the light downwards, shining the light close to the wooden floorboards.  
“The floor.” You said to Sherlock, diverting his attention. There were several sets of illuminated footprints of varying sizes leading towards the door. You followed them slowly.   
“He made a trail for us!” You smiled.   
“The boy was made to walk ahead of them.” Sherlock nodded. John looked at the shape of some of the smaller footprints.  
“On, what, tiptoe?” Your brother scoffed slightly.  
“Indicates anxiety; a gun held to his head.” You shrugged as Sherlock walked slowly out into the corridor, which had also been blacked out, following the footsteps. Anderson walked beside him with another ultraviolet light.  
“The girl was pulled beside him, dragged sideways. He had his left arm cradled about her neck.” A few yards along the corridor the glowing footsteps stopped.  
“That’s the end of it. We don’t know where they went from here.”  
Sherlock stopped. Anderson turned back to him. “Tells us nothing after all.” The idiot stated smugly.  
“You’re right, Anderson – nothing.” Sherlock paused for a moment, then took a breath.  
“Except his shoe size, his height, his gait, his walking pace.” You finished for him.  
Sherlock reached to the closest window and tore down the blackout material that had been stuck across it. Daylight flooded back into the corridor. Putting the light onto the window sill, he knelt down and took his wallet of tools and a small lidded plastic Petri dish from his inside pocket. As the police went back towards the bedroom, he put the dish on the floor, opened the wallet and chuckles contentedly. You squatted down beside him.   
“Having fun?”  
“Starting to.” He smiled.  
“Maybe don’t do the smiling.” Sherlock lifted his head and cocked it slightly.  
“Kidnapped children?” You reminded him. Sherlock’s face fell.  
“Better?”  
“Better.” You affirmed as he lowered his head again and concentrated on scraping some of the dried linseed oil and floor wax loose with a small scalpel. He then used tweezers to pick up the loosened pieces and put them into the container.

Back are a taxi, you and Sherlock sat across from John. You were heading to St Bart’s.  
“But how did he get past the CCTV? If all the doors were locked ...”   
“He walked in when they weren’t locked.” You stated.  
“But a stranger can’t just walk into a school like that.” John frowned.   
“Anyone can walk in anywhere if they pick the right moment. Yesterday – end of term, parents milling around, chauffeurs, staff. What’s one more stranger among that lot? He was waiting for them. All he had to do was find a place to hide.”

Molly Hooper walked along a corridor, pulling her coat on. Just as she reached the fire doors at the end of the corridor, your regular group walked through them.   
“Molly!” Sherlock smiled.  
“Oh, hello. I’m just going out.”  
Sherlock put his hands onto her shoulders and turned her back the way she just came.  
“No you’re not.”  
“I’ve got a lunch date!” She protested  
Sherlock put a hand on her back to start her walking again. “Cancel it. You’re having lunch with me.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he dramatically produced a bag of Quavers crisps from each pocket.  
“What?”  
“Need your help. It’s one of your old boyfriends – we’re trying to track him down. He’s been a bit naughty!” He put the crisps back into his pockets.  
Reaching the fire doors at the other end of the corridor, he turned and smiles back at Molly, who has stopped dead a few paces back. John also stopped and stared at him.  
“It’s Moriarty?”  
“Course it’s Moriarty.” You scoffed unhappily.  
“Er, Jim actually wasn’t even my boyfriend. We went out three times. I ended it.”  
“Yes, and then he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organised a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out and brandished the Quavers at her again, then continued on through the fire door. She stared after him in utter bewilderment.

Shortly afterwards, wearing her lab coat, she pushed her way through the door into Sherlock’s favourite lab weighed down by the huge pile of books and files she was carrying. As she staggered into the room, Sherlock was sitting at the bench in front of a microscope. John was standing at the other side of the bench.  
“Oil, John.” He opened the plastic Petri dish and takes out one of the samples with tweezers. “The oil in the kidnapper’s footprint – it’ll lead us to Moriarty.” He dropped the sample into a test tube which had some liquid in the bottom. The fluid began to fizz. He suctioned up some of the liquid and dropped it onto a slide.  
“All the chemical traces on his shoe have been preserved. The sole of the shoe is like a passport. If we’re lucky we can see everything that he’s been up to.” He looked at the slide under the microscope. Molly put on latex gloves.  
“I need that analysis.” Sherlock said as he glared into the microscope. Molly squoze some liquid into a glass dish and applied some Litmus paper to it. The paper turned blue.   
“Alkaline.”  
“Thank you, John.”   
“Molly.” She corrected him unhappily.  
“Yes.”   
She turned away unhappily. Sherlock had found the first component in the mixture of items and made a note of it:  
1\. Chalk  
He took another sample and dissolved it. The results revealed another item:   
2\. Asphalt Dissolving another sample into a dish he wrote down:   
3\. Brick Dust And another sample dissolved and heated over a Bunsen burner:   
4\. Vegetation 

Later, he had another sample on a slide and stared at it in the microscope. He quietly murmured to himself.  
“I ... owe ... you.” He mumbled softly. He turned his head and looks at a computer screen nearby. “Glycerol molecule.” He sighed heavily as he struggled to identify the item.  
5\. ?   
“What are you?” He looked into the microscope again as Molly stood beside him typing onto a laptop.  
“What did you mean, “I owe you”?” Molly asked. John walked across the lab on the other side of the bench. Sherlock raised his eyes from the microscope and watched him as he crosses the room.)   
“You said, “I owe you”. You were muttering it while you were working.”  
“Nothing. Mental note.”   
Molly looked at him intently. “You’re a bit like my dad. He’s dead.” She closed her eyes, embarrassed. “No, sorry.”  
“Molly, please don’t feel the need to make conversation. It’s really not your area.” Molly cringed but continues.  
“When he was ... dying, he was always cheerful; he was lovely – except when he thought no-one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad.”  
“Molly...” Sherlock said sternly.  
“You look sad ...” she glanced towards you “... when you think she can’t see you.” You frowned. Sherlock’s eyes lifted from the microscope and drifted towards you as you flicked through papers. Sherlock turned his head and looked at Molly.  
“Are you okay?” He opened his mouth but she interrupted before he can speak. “And don’t just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no-one can see you.”  
“You can see me.”  
“I don’t count.” Sherlock blinked and really looked at her, possibly for the first time since he had known her.   
“What I’m trying to say is that, if there’s anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me.” She flinched and looked away briefly.  
“No, I just mean ... I mean if there’s anything you need ...” She shook her head. “It’s fine.” She turned away. Sherlock looked shaken.  
“What-what-what could I need from you?”  
Molly turned back to him.  
“Nothing.” She shrugged. “I dunno. You could probably say thank you, actually.” She nodded nervously but firmly. The side of Sherlock’s mouth twitched as if it doesn’t know how to say the words. “... Thank you.” He said hesitantly, then he frowned and turned his head away as if surprised that he actually said it. Molly started to walk towards the door.  
“I’m just gonna go and get some crisps. Do you want anything?” He started to open his mouth but she turned back and beat him to it.  
“It’s okay, I know you don’t.”  
“Well, actually, maybe I’ll ...”  
“I know you don’t.” She turned and walks away, leaving the room. He watched her go, then gazed into the distance thoughtfully for a moment before looking back to his microscope.

On the other side of the lab, ignorant of the conversation that had just taken place, John was scanning through police photographs taken at the school. He found one of the inside of the wooden trunk which showed the envelope with the wax seal, and another with a close-up of the seal.  
“Sherlock.” John called.  
“Hmm?”  
“This envelope that was in her trunk. There’s another one.”  
He walked over to where he had put his jacket. “What?” Sherlock looked up.  
“On our doorstep. Found it today.” He got the envelope out of his pocket and looked at it.  
“Yes, and look at that.” He brung the envelope round the bench and gives it to Sherlock.   
“Look at that. Exactly the same seal.” You said, examining it. Sherlock reached into the envelope and took out some of the brown dust.   
“Breadcrumbs.” He hummed  
“Uh-huh. It was there when I got back.”  
“A little trace of breadcrumbs; hardback copy of fairy tales.” His eyes widened. “Two children led into the forest by a wicked father follow a little trail of breadcrumbs.”  
“That’s “Hansel and Gretel.” What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?” John frowned.   
“The sort that likes to boast; the sort that thinks it’s all a game. He sat in our flat and he said these exact words to me ... ‘All fairytales need a good old-fashioned villain.’” Sherlock put the envelope down and adjusted his microscope before starting to look into it again.  
“The fifth substance: it’s part of the tale.” He looked up again. “The witch’s house.”   
“What?”  
“The glycerol molecule.” The final element in the sample became clear to him.   
5\. PGPR  
“PGPR!” Sherlock exclaimed   
“What’s that?”  
“It’s used in making chocolate.” You said as Sherlock leapt to his feet and hurried out of the lab.

At Scotland Yard, Greg handed a sheet of paper to Sherlock as he led you into the department’s main office.   
“This fax arrived an hour ago.” There was a large handwritten note on the paper saying:   
HURRY UP THEY’RE DYING!   
Sherlock handed the note to you.  
“What have you got for us?” Lestrade asked hopefully.   
“Need to find a place in the city where all five of these things intersect.” He handed a piece of paper to Greg, who read it aloud.  
“Chalk, asphalt, brick dust, vegetation ... What the hell is this? Chocolate?”  
“I think we’re looking for a disused sweet factory.” “We need to narrow that down. A sweet factory with asphalt?”  
“No. No-no-no. Too general. Need something more specific. Chalk; chalky clay – that’s a far thinner band of geology.”   
You called up a map of London in your head, overlaying it with the names of the towns, then began zooming in and out of various areas.  
“Brick dust?”  
“Building site. Bricks from the nineteen fifties.” Sherlock added. Lestrade rubbed his face in despair. “There’s thousands of building sites in London.” Sherlock looked exasperated at the distraction.  
“I’ve got people out looking.”  
“So have I.”   
“Homeless network – faster than the police.” He smiled snidely. “Far more relaxed about taking bribes.”  
Sitting at a desk nearby, Anderson looked up and rolls his eyes. Sherlock’s phone trilled a text alert, followed by several more alerts. He brandished his phone triumphantly at Greg as the messages continued to pour in. Smiling smugly, he lifted the phone up high and calls up his mental London map in front of him, flicking his eyes across to the phone to look at each photograph and then transfer it to the map. One of the photos attracts his particular attention, being a close-up shot of some purple flowers.   
“John.” He held the phone out to show him the picture. “Rhododendron ponticum. It matches. You went back to the mental map and scanned around it to the only places in London where such a plant grows, then found the one place that contains the other elements as well.  
“Addlestone.” You said as you flung your eyes open. “What?”  
“There’s a mile of disused factories between the river and the park. It matches everything.” You smiled at Sherlock as he turned and hurried out of the office with John and you in hot pursuit. Greg turned to his team.  
“Right, come on.” Sally hesitated. “Come on!”   
She jumped up and hurried after him.


	31. The Storyteller

Sirens approached the junction ahead of the three of you. Sherlock swerved to his left and dropped the pistol in the process. It clattered to the ground.  
"The gun!" John said, going to collect it.  
"Leave it!" He shoved you down a side alley as the police car raced straight across the junction. You ran down the alleyway and reached high railings blocking your way. Sherlock, with his customary flair, leapt up onto the top of a dustbin and vaulted straight over the top of the railings. You being noticeably shorter than Sherlock and also being not as close to the dustbin, was left behind; your right hand was dragged upwards and your face almost smashed against the railings as Sherlock dropped to the other side.   
"Sherlock, wait!" You reached through the railings with your free hand and grabbed Sherlock's coat, dragging him closer and glaring into his face. You resisted the urge to kiss him, as it was not the time nor the place to do so.   
"We're going to need to coordinate." You said sternly as your brother scrambled over to the other side with him. Sherlock quickly scans all around you.  
"Go to your right."  
"Huh?"  
"Go to your right." He insisted.  
You looked upwards and went up onto your tiptoes to get the chain of the cuffs over the top of one of the spikes at the top of the railings.

Not long afterwards, you were on the same side of the railings and running down the alley again. Reaching a T-junction Sherlock turned to the right, then immediately recoiled and ducked back again as a sirening police car raced past the end of the alley. The three of you lent side by side against the wall catching their breath for a moment.  
"Everybody wants to believe it – that's makes it so clever." He looked at you and John. "A lie that's preferable to the truth." Looking away again, his voice became bitter. "All my brilliant deductions were just a sham. No-one feels inadequate – Sherlock Holmes is just an ordinary man."  
"What about Mycroft? He could help us." John asked. You grunted as Sherlock dragged you across to the other side of the alley and peered down the left arm of the T-junction.  
"A big family reconciliation? Now's not really the moment."   
He spun around, dragging you in a circle behind him as he looked back the way they came. You spotted something at the end of the right arm of the T-junction.  
"Sher... Sherlock." You elbowed him with your cuffed arm to turn him in that direction. A face is peered around the corner at the end of the alley.  
"We're being followed. I knew we couldn't outrun the police." John mumbled.  
He broke in the opposite direction from where the man is watching them. Running to the next corner, you flatten yourselves against the wall as you reached it and Sherlock looked around the corner. There was no sign of any police in the street but a double decker bus – the number 74 to Baker Street Station – was approaching. Sherlock pressed himself back against the wall again.  
"Where are we going?" You mumbled.  
"We're going to jump in front of that bus."  
"What?!" You and John both exclaimed. But Sherlock was already on the move and dragged you out into the street. John stayed on the roadside. The assassin raced after you. Halfway across the road, Sherlock screeched to a halt directly in front of the approaching bus. Your impetus carried you past Sherlock before you're able to turn and now you're both facing the bus and not moving. The assassin charged into the road, throwing himself at you and shoved you out of the way and all three of you tumbled to the ground as the bus drove past, its horn blaring. Before the assassin could recover, Sherlock sat up and dragged the man's own gun from his jeans, then cocked and points it at him.  
"Tell me what you want from me." The man stared at him wide-eyed but didn't speak. Sherlock moved the gun's muzzle closer to him.  
"Tell me." Sherlock urged.  
"He left it at your flat."  
"Who?"  
"Moriarty."  
"What?"   
All three of you started to get to your feet, Sherlock still held the gun on the other man. John jogged across the road to you.  
"The computer keycode."  
"Of course. He's selling it – the programme he used to break into the Tower. He planted it when he came around."  
Three gunshots rang out and the assassin reels and drops to the ground. Sherlock stared up in the direction the bullets came from, then swung around and he and you raced off once more. As police sirens approached again, you ducked into an open doorway as yet another police car drove past the end of the road. You take a moment to catch your breath again.   
"It's a game-changer. It's a key – it can break into any system and it's sitting in our flat right now. That's why he left that message telling everyone where to come. "Get Sherlock." We need to get back into the flat and search."  
"CID'll be camped out. Why plant it on you?" John sighed.  
"It's another subtle way of smearing my name. Now I'm best pals with all those criminals." John had spotted a pile of newspapers nearby and he picked up the top copy.  
"Yeah, well, have you seen this?" It was a copy of "The Sun" – the same edition that Mycroft had at the Diogenes Club that morning, telling of the upcoming exposé by Kitty Riley. John showed it to Sherlock.  
"A kiss and tell. Some bloke called Rich Brook."  
Sherlock slowly turned his head – clearly the name meant something to him. John was still looking at the paper and didn't see his expression but you did.  
"Who is he?" You asked.

Kitty Riley parked her car outside her home, got out and locked the car before walking to the front door. Opening it, she walked along the hall to the door of her flat, then paused and looked at the door nervously as she realised that it is slightly ajar. Hesitantly she pushed the door open and reached for the light switch on the wall. The lights came on and she was greeted with the sight of you, Sherlock and John sitting side by side on her sofa. Sherlock and you drumming the fingers of their handcuffed hand on your respective knees.   
"Too late to go on the record?" Sherlock smiled weakly.

Kitty was sitting in an armchair while you and Sherlock stood in the middle of the room. Sherlock was using a hairpin to pick the lock on his handcuff. "Congratulations. The truth about Sherlock Holmes." He frowned at Kitty. He freed his hand and handed the hairpin to you before starting to pace back and forth in front of Kitty.  
"The scoop that everybody wanted and you got it. Bravo!"  
"I gave you your opportunity. I wanted to be on your side, remember? You turned me down, so..."  
"And then, behold, someone turns up and spills all the beans. How utterly convenient. Who is Brook?" Kitty shook her head, refusing to tell him any more.  
"Oh, come on, Kitty. No-one trusts the voice at the end of a telephone."   
After some fidgeting you finally freed his own hand from the cuffs.  
"There are all those furtive little meetings in cafés; those sessions in the hotel room where he gabbled into your dictaphone. How do you know that you can trust him? A man turns up with the Holy Grail in his pockets." His voice turned sternly. "What were his credentials?" Outside in the hallway there had been the sounds of someone coming in through the main front door. Now Kitty looked towards the door of the flat and rose to her feet with a concerned look on her face as someone pushed her door open. Sherlock turned to follow her gaze as Jim Moriarty, unshaven and with his hair messy and wearing casual clothes including a cardigan, walked in with a shopping bag.  
"Darling, they didn't have any ground coffee so I just got normal ..." He raised his eyes and stared in terror at the sight of Sherlock, whose own eyes widened. You stare at him in confusion. Jim dropped the shopping bag and backed away until he bumped into the wall behind him, holding his hands up protectively in front of him.  
"You said that they wouldn't find me here. You said that I'd be safe here." Jim's voice trembled. You couldn't mask the pure confusion on your face.  
"You are safe, Richard. I'm a witness. He wouldn't harm you in front of witnesses."   
You pointed at Jim in shock.  
"So that's your source? Moriarty is Richard Brook?!" You bared your teeth and he glared at Jim, breathing heavily in pure fury.   
"Of course he's Richard Brook. There is no Moriarty. There never has been."  
"What are you talking about?" You gritted you're teeth together.  
"Look him up. Rich Brook – an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty." Sherlock stared at Jim, who was still holding his hands up and looking at everyone nervously. Jim's voice was shaking as he turned to you.  
"Ms. Watson, I know you're a good person." He backed into the corner of the room, appearing terrified under your ferocious glare.  
"Don't ... don't h... Don't hurt me." He pleaded.  
John screamed at him, pointing towards him furiously.  
"No, you are Moriarty!" He turned his head briefly and yelled at Kitty. "He's Moriarty!" He turned back to Jim. "We've met, remember? You were gonna blow me up!"  
"You put me through hell on that train!" You shouted.  
Jim put his hands briefly over his face, then held them up in front of himself again, sounding as if he was almost crying in fear.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He gestured towards Sherlock. "He paid me. I needed the work. I'm an actor. I was out of work. I'm sorry, okay?" Breathing heavily, you turned to Sherlock.)   
"Sherlock, you'd better ... explain ... because I am not getting this." You pleaded at him with wide eyes.  
"Oh I'll ... I'll be doing the explaining – in print." She handed you a folder. "It's all here – conclusive proof."   
You looked at the early typed sheet of her upcoming article, then turned to the proof copy showing the layout of how it would appear in the newspaper, with spaces left for photographs. The headline read, "Sherlock's a fake!" with the strapline, "He invented all the crimes".  
"You invented James Moriarty, your nemesis."   
"Invented him?" John rubbed his face in despair.  
"Mmm-hmm. Invented all the crimes, actually – and to cap it all, you made up a master villain."  
"Oh, don't be ridiculous!" You shouted, throwing the folder over your shoulder.  
Kitty turned and pointed towards Jim.  
"Ask him. He's right here! Just ask him. Tell him, Richard."  
"Look, for God's sake, this man was on trial!" You snapped.  
"Yes..." She pointed at Sherlock "... and you paid him; paid him to take the rap. Promised you'd rig the jury." Sherlock stared at her silently.  
"Not exactly a West End role, but I'll bet the money was good." She walked over to Jim and put her arm around his shoulders as he stood with his hands still held out in front of himself.  
"But not so good he didn't want to sell his story." Jim looked plaintively at you, putting his hands together pleadingly.  
"I am sorry. I am. I am sorry."   
"So-so this is the story that you're gonna publish. The big conclusion of it all: Moriarty's an actor?!" John stammered, his anger overflowing.  
You shook your head in disbelief.  
"Why aren't you disputing it Sherlock!" You pleaded with Sherlock. "Just tell me it's not true!"  
"He knows I am. I have proof. I have proof. Show him, Kitty! Show her something!"  
"Yeah, show me something." You snapped.

Kitty walked across the room. You and John turned to watch her as she reached into a bag for more information. Behind them, Jim had put his hands over his face but now he pulled his hands away from his eyes a little and looked towards Sherlock, whose own gaze has barely left him since he arrived. Sherlock half-smiled back at him but there was no humour in his eyes. Kitty took out a folder and handed it over to you.   
"I'm on TV. I'm on kids' TV. I'm The Storyteller."  
He sounded plaintive and panicked.   
You skimmed over copies of Richard Brook's contact details apparently taken from an agency website, then a newspaper article showing a picture of Richard in glasses wearing medical scrubs and with a stethoscope around his neck. The article was headlined, "Award Winning Actor Joins The Cast of Top Medical Drama".   
"I'm ... I'm The Storyteller. It's on DVD." He looked across to Sherlock again. John continued looking through the folder that you had handed to him, at other publicity stills of Rich together with his CV. Jim gestured towards John and you, looking at Sherlock pleadingly.  
"Just tell him. It's all coming out now. It's all over." His voice became more frantic. "Just tell them. Just tell them. Tell him!" Baring his teeth, Sherlock started to walk towards him.  
"It's all over now ... NO!" He backed away from Sherlock and up a short flight of stairs towards the bedroom on the upper level of the flat. His eyes were wide and terrified.  
"Don't you touch me! Don't you lay a finger on me!"  
"Stop it. Stop it NOW!" Sherlock shouted.  
Jim turned and bolts up the stairs.  
"Don't hurt me!" Sherlock, you and John chase after him.  
"Don't let him get away!" You shouted.  
"Leave him alone!" Kitty pleaded.

Jim ran into the bathroom on the other side of the bedroom. Jim slammed the door. Sherlock ran to the door and struggled momentarily to open it, then shoved it open but Jim had already disappeared through the open window opposite. There was a loud crash outside as if Jim had landed on top of a dustbin. Sherlock looked out of the window, then turns to stop you from going after him.  
"No, no, no. He'll have back-up." Sherlock shook his head. He headed towards the stairs. Kitty backed down to get out of his way but refused to move quickly, slowing him down.   
"D'you know what, Sherlock Holmes? I look at you now and I can read you."  
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs as she got into his face. "And you ... repel ... me." She hissed slowly.  
Sherlock turned and headed out of the door. John, still holding the folder of the articles about Rich, shoved Kitty aside and followed him.   
You went out onto the street and John stopped as Sherlock began to pace rapidly back and forth in the middle of the road.  
"Can he do that? Completely change his identity; make you the criminal?" John frowned.  
"He's got my whole life story. That's what you do when you sell a big lie; you wrap it up in the truth to make it more palatable."  
"Your word against his." You sighed.  
"He's been sowing doubt into people's minds for the last twenty-four hours. There's only one thing he needs to do to complete his game, and that's to ..."  
He stopped dead as he made a realisation. John who had still been rifling through the folder, looked up at his friend, who turned away from him. You stared at Sherlock for a moment.  
"Sherlock?" You reached for him.  
"Something I need to do."  
"What? Can I help?" You asked  
"No – on my own." He briskly walked away. John watched him, sighing, then looks down at the papers again. You looked down at your feet, feeling helpless. John looked up and down the road and then apparently decided that you'd go in the opposite direction.  
"Come on, (y/n)..." your brother urged.

Mycroft walks across one of the common rooms, where an old man was fast asleep in an armchair, and went into a smaller private room where you had met to discuss Kitty Riley earlier. He reached for the door handle to close it, he stopped as he realised that you were sitting in one of the armchairs with your back to him. You were still looking through Kitty's file. John was sat next to you.  
"She has really done her homework, Miss Riley – things that only someone close to Sherlock could know." You said, leafing through the article.  
"Ah." Mycroft sighed as he closed the door.  
"Have you seen your brother's address book lately? Three names: yours, John's and mine, and Moriarty didn't get this stuff from me or John."   
Mycroft walked across the room to face you.   
"(Y/N)..." Mycroft began.  
"So how does it work, then, your relationship? D'you go out for a coffee now and then, eh, you and Jim?" You we're quietly seething. Mycroft sat down in the chair opposite and opened his mouth but you interrupted again, your voice full of controlled anger.  
"Your own brother, and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac."  
"I never inten... I never dreamt ..." Mycroft tried to get his words out.  
"So this ...th-th-this ..." you looked through the papers again "... is what you were trying to tell us, isn't it? 'Watch his back, 'cause I've made a mistake.'"  
You slapped the papers down on the table beside your chair and sat back, clearing your throat as you tried to stay calm.  
"How did you meet him?" John asked as you attempted further to calm yourself. Mycroft drew in a long breath.  
"People like him: we know about them; we watch them. But James Moriarty ... the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen, and in his pocket the ultimate weapon: a keycode. A few lines of computer code that could unlock any door."  
"And you abducted him to try and find the keycode?" Your brother asked.  
"Interrogated him for weeks."  
"And?" You pressed.  
"He wouldn't play along. He just sat there, staring into the darkness. The only thing that made him open up ..." He ruefully gestured to himself. You rolled your eyes.  
"I could get him to talk ... just a little, but..." He trailed off.   
"In return you had to offer him Sherlock's life story. So one big lie – Sherlock's a fraud – but people will swallow it because the rest of it's true." You grimly finished the sentence for him.  
You leant forward in his chair.  
"Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, right? And you have given him the perfect ammunition." You smiled bitterly at him. Mycroft lowered his eyes. John pulled in a sharp breath and then got to his feet, turning towards the door.   
"John..." John turned back. Mycroft looked up at him.  
"I'm sorry." He said lightly.   
"Oh, please ..." you scoffed as John shook his head in disbelief and turned away, laughing humourlessly as he walks to the door.   
"Tell him, would you?" You opened the door and walked away, leaving the door open behind you.


	32. The Reichenbach Fall

TW SU*C*DE

"Got your message." You said as you flung open to door to a lab at St Bart's followed by John. Sherlock sat alone on the floor with his back against a bench. He was bouncing a small rubber ball off the floor and cupboard in front of him and catching it before repeating the movement constantly. Sherlock caught the ball and held on to it.  
"The computer code is key to this. If we find it, we can use it – beat Moriarty at his own game."  
"What d'you mean, "use it"?" John asked.  
"He used it to create a false identity, so we can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook."  
"And bring back Jim Moriarty again." You finishes his sentence.  
"Somewhere in 221B, somewhere – on the day of the verdict – he left it hidden." He turned and faces the bench, putting both hands on the work surface. John walked to stand beside him, unconsciously mimicking his stance.  
"Uh-huh." You all stared ahead of yourselves, thinking. John pursed his lips, then looked at Sherlock.  
"What did he touch?"  
"An apple. Nothing else."  
He briefly drummed his fingers on the bench.  
"Did he write anything down?"  
"No."  
John hissed in a breath and looked away, racking his brains and again unconsciously mimicking his friend by drumming his own fingers on the bench. After a moment, he turned and walked across the lab, blowing the breath out again. Sherlock lifted the fingers of his right hand, hesitated for a moment, then began to drum them again, beating out a rhythm. He lifted his head as you sighed heavily. Straightening up, Sherlock turned his back to you, takes his phone out of his pocket and began to type a text message. Sending the message, he tucked his phone away into his jacket and then turned back towards the bench, his eyes full of thought.

You and John had fallen asleep on a desk unintentionally. John's phone rang. Lifting his head tiredly, he groaned and answered the phone.  
"Yeah, speaking." He listened for a moment. You groaned and stretched out the cramps in your spine from sleeping hunched over.  
"Er, what?" He got to his feet, his voice conveying shock.  
"What happened? Is she okay?" He listened. "Oh my God. Right, yes, I'm coming." He switched the phone off.  
"What is it?" You asked.  
"Paramedics. Mrs Hudson – she's been shot." You gasped.  
"What? How?" Sherlock frowned.  
"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract ... Jesus. Jesus. She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go." He said frantically. You hopped to your feet. He turned towards the door.  
" You go. I'm busy." Sherlock said disinterestedly.  
John turned back towards him, his face appalled.   
"Busy?" You snapped.  
"Thinking. I need to think."  
"You need to ...? Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her." John said, his voice wavering as anger courses through him.  
"She's my landlady." He shrugged  
"She's dying!" You stated furiously. You flailed a hand in front of yourself in utter disbelief at Sherlock's attitude. "You.... machine."   
John looked down, shaking his head.  
"Sod this. Sod this." He headed towards the door. "You stay here if you want, on your own. Come on (y/n)." He said   
"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."  
John opened the door and looked back at him angrily. "No. Friends protect people." He stormed out of the room with you following closely.

A taxi pulled up outside 221B and you jumped out and hurried towards the door, scrabbling for your keys. As you and John hurried inside, a man with a stepladder was standing at the top of it just in front of the stairs and was drilling a hole into the wall. Mrs Hudson stood nearby watching him. As John ran towards her, she jolted in startlement, having not heard his approach over the sound of the drill  
"Oh, God, John! You made me jump!"  
You stared at her in confusion.  
"But..."  
"Is everything okay now with the police? Has, um, Sherlock sorted it all out?" You stared for a moment longer and then it suddenly sunk in.   
"Oh my God." You turned around and ran out again, looking up and down the street frantically and leaving John behind to speak to Mrs Hudson. Luckily you immediately sees what he needs.  
"Taxi!" You shouted. A cab began to pull over on the other side of the road. You chased across the road towards it.  
"Taxi!" You shouted again. A man was standing at the side of the road having also just hailed the cab. As he leant into the front window to tell the driver his destination, you runs around the cab and pulled open the rear door, talking even as you scrambled inside.  
"No, no, no, no, police! ... Sort of."  
"Oh, thanks, mate – thanks a lot!" The man said unhappily as he walked away.

You got out of the taxi as your phone began to ring. You checked the caller ID,   
Sherlock.  
You raised the phone to your ear as you trotted quickly towards the hospital.  
"Hello?"   
"(Y/N)."  
"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?" You asked anxiously.  
"Turn around and walk back the way you came now."  
"No, I'm coming in." You insisted.  
"Just do as I ask. Please." Sherlock said frantically.  
"Where?" You turned around in bewilderment and did as Sherlock commanded. Sherlock paused for a moment as you walks along the road, then spoke urgently.  
"Stop there."   
You stopped and looked around in confusion.  
"Sherlock what's going on?" You asked  
"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."   
You turned and looked up, your face filling with horror.   
"Oh God." You felt a wave of sickness wash over you.  
"I ... I ... I can't come down, so we'll ... we'll just have to do it like this."  
"What's going on?" You repeated anxiously.  
"An apology. It's all true."  
"Wh-what?" You stammered.  
"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."  
You stared up at Sherlock in disbelief.  
"Why are you saying this?"   
Sherlock turned back to look down at you. His voice broke.  
"I'm a fake."  
"Sherlock..." you pleaded.   
"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, John and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."  
His voice was tearful through the phone.  
"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met ... the first time we met, you knew all about me, right?"  
"Nobody could be that clever."  
"You could. I-I could!" Your voice broke. Sherlock laughed bitterly and gazed down at his friend.   
"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. I did the same with John." He sniffed quietly. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick."  
You squoze your eyes closed and shook your head repeatedly.  
"No. All right, stop it now." You said as you started to walk towards the hospital entrance.   
"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move." Sherlock said urgently. You stopped and backed up, holding your hand up towards Sherlock in capitulation.  
"All right." You said, feeling every inch of yourself shaking. Breathing rapidly, Sherlock unconsciously reached out his own hand towards you in response.  
"Keep your eyes fixed on me." His voice became frantic. "Please, will you do this for me?"  
"Do what?" You felt tears slipping out of your eyes.  
"This phone call – it's, er ... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?" You shook your head violently, momentarily taking the phone from your ear as the stress of what you began to understand hit you, then you raised the phone again, your voice shaky.  
"Leave a note when?"  
"Goodbye, (y/n)."  
"No. Don't." You cried out desperately. Sherlock gazed down at you for several seconds, then he lowered his arm and dropped the phone onto the roof, gazing ahead of himself. You lowered your own phone and screamed upwards.   
"No. SHERLOCK!"   
Sherlock spread his arms to either side and fell forward, plummeting towards the ground. You stared in utter horror.  
"Sher..." A couple of seconds later the body's made contact the ground with a terrible thud. Your hearing whited out as your entire body focused on getting to Sherlock as soon as you could. You ran to the corner of the building, then slowed down and stopped in the middle of the road as you got your first glimpse of the still figure lying on the wet pavement, the lower part of his body obscured by a parked lorry. Behind you, a young man on a fast pedal cycle slammed into you, sending you crashing to the ground, your head hitting the asphalt hard.   
Groaning, you struggled to stay conscious as, nearby, people began to run towards the body on the pavement. The lorry pulled away and a couple of medics from the hospital hurried out and started trying to prevent the onlookers from getting too close. Grimacing with pain, you rolled onto your side and looked across to the pavement where Sherlock was lying on his side with a lot of blood under his head. Slowly you hauled yourself to your feet and stumbled towards him as more onlookers gathered, talking excitedly about what they saw. You forced yourself onwards.   
"Sherlock, Sherlock ..." You whispered hopelessly. You reached the crowd.   
"Let me come through. Let me come through, please." You pleaded. Some of the crowd tried to hold you back but you pushed through them.  
"No, he's my friend. He's my friend. Please." You cried out. You reached down to take hold of Sherlock's wrist, searching for a pulse. A woman peeled your fingers off as she and another person pulled him away. As you reached towards Sherlock again, more medics arrived with a wheeled stretcher.  
"Please, let me just ..." you said frantically. The impact of the shock and the bang on your head began to take effect and your knees give out. As you slumped to the floor supported by a couple of onlookers, two people gently rolled Sherlock onto his back revealing his blood stained face and wide staring eyes. You groaned in utter despair.  
"Nggh, Jesus, no." You spotted Sherlock's scarf that had come loose as he fell and reached out for it, needing to hold on to him. You grabbed it and tried to stand but sinks back again. The scarf was wet in your fingers, but you couldn't tell wether it was blood or rain.  
"God, no." As the onlookers supported you, four people lifted Sherlock's body onto the stretcher and then rapidly wheeled it away into the hospital. You stared after it, your face blank and uncomprehending. You finally managed to get to your feet and shake off the helpers, staring blindly in the direction that Sherlock's body was taken.

You could feel your entire world crash around you. You clutched Sherlock's scarf in your hands. Sobbing uncontrollably.  
"Why!?" You cried out angrily. Your heart ached and you felt it sink into a dark pit. You could barely stand at this point as you sobbed and sobbed. You couldn't breathe and your vision ebbed. You balled your hands into fists, tightly clutching the scarf. You wobbled over to a taxi.  
"221B... Baker Street..." you said, as you collapsed into the back of the cab and blacking out completely. 

When you came to you were still clutching Sherlock's scarf and was being pulled out of the cab by John and the driver. You groaned groggily as John leant you on his shoulder.   
"(Y/N) what happened? Where's Sherlock?" The sound of his name made you sag and John struggled to support you. He helped you into the apartment and sat you on the sofa. You looked sadly at his scarf.   
"John- he- he..." you sobbed.  
"Woah!" He sat next to you to comfort you.   
"He... killed..." you blinked, trying to arrange your memories. "He's dead... John... he killed himself..." you said through sobs. John's face dropped.   
"No no... you must be confused... there's no way..." John mumbled in disbelief.  
"John I saw him jump. I saw him hit the ground..." you shook your head angrily. John sagged. You completely broke down again. 

You stumbled to your room and slipped down in front of the door. You finally brought yourself to look at the scarf. It was his favourite navy blue one that he wore all the time. He would never allow it to get dirty, but now there was a small dark patch of blood near the tasseled end. You clutched the scarf to your chest, breathing his smell in raggedly. Your head was spinning.   
How could he? How could he do that to me? I lo- no. You couldn't bring yourself to admit it. You couldn't do that to yourself. Your brain felt like it was swelling against your skull, like it was about to explode. You blacked out again.

It had been a week since Sherlock died. You couldn't eat, sleep or even think. Your mind was blank. You felt numb. You sat in your bed wearing black, staring across to the coat rack that housed the scarf. You felt so lost and alone. Today was his funeral, and you were meant to give a speech. A soft knock came at your door. You looked up to see John standing at your door with a plate of toast and a cup of tea. He walked in and placed them on your bedside table.  
"You need to eat." He said sadly. "You'll get sick."   
He plopped himself down next to you. You hated the fact that John was acting strong for your sake. You knew he was going through hell. Sherlock was his best friend.   
"Can we talk about it, please?" John pleaded.  
"I-I can't..."   
"You need to feel it, (y/n) or you won't get over it."  
"I don't want to get over him, John! I spent months trying to get over him!"   
"Months?" Your brother asked. You covered your mouth. You had said too much.  
"When I moved out... it was because Sherlock broke my heart. I was jealous about Irene..." you mumbled. John's eyes widened, but he nodded, trying to comprehend.  
"You two were seeing each other? That's why sher..." John cut himself off, not being able to say his name. "That's why he was moping about when you left? You broke up?"  
"We weren't exactly seeing each other. But there was something. I don't know how I'd explain it." You sighed as you reached a trembling hand to the toast. You took a bite and when you swallowed your stomach twisted in knots. You put the toast back down. "When we were in the hotel... after the first fight... he kissed me..." you felt the emotion overtake you again. You began to cry. It was the first time you had admitted it to your brother. John wrapped his arms around you.   
"I know..." he whispered. "I know..."  
"B-but how?" You breathed heavily, tears falling steadily.   
"You were happiest when you were with him. I may not be as clever as you, but I'm not stupid." He soothed. "I saw the way you looked at each other when you thought I wasn't looking. The way you acted around Irene was a dead giveaway too." He chuckled sadly, running his hand up and down your back to soothe you.  
"Why didn't you tell me?"  
"Because I knew you'd kill him." You smiled bitterly.  
"Yeah, well, that'd be me just being a good brother... If he was here now I'd bollock him for going after my baby sister." He smiled sadly.   
"I miss him John. I can't sleep. I keep seeing him falling. Every time I close my eyes..."  
He nodded.   
"I gathered you would. That's why I booked you an appointment with my old therapist."   
You frowned.  
"A shrink?" You said, offended.  
"Just hear me out. You need to talk to someone to help you stop it. You need to get better, (y/n)." Your brother affectionately touched your damp cheek, and wiped away a tear. "I can't loose you too..." his voice broke. You pressed your face to his hand and nodded slightly.

Mrs Hudson appeared at your door with a sympathetic look on her face. You and John turned to look at her.  
"The cars here..." she sighed as she reached out to grab your hand. She gave it a hard squeeze and helped you up. You had barely left your room in the past week so stepping out to the living room and seeing everything left the way it was before Sherlock died hurt. You smiled weakly at John, knowing that he didn't have the strength to move anything. He returned it. 

You sat in the front row in the cemetery. Sherlock's beautiful glossy black coffin was suspended over the hole in the ground. Lestrade and Donovan sat across from you, but you couldn't even look at them.   
It's their fault he's gone. You shook your head, knowing that was unreasonable. You looked around to a sea of faces of people you didn't know waiting by the gate. You scowled as you realised they were reporters. Mrs Hudson gave an affectionate account of how she met Sherlock when she was asked to speak. John nudged you as he sat down, after his speech. It was your turn. You let out a shaky breath as you stood up. You could hear mumbles of worried gossip from attendants  
"She looks so skinny! Has she been eating?"  
"She looks so pale! Is she ill?"  
You frowned as you passed the coffin. You placed a flower on top. One red rose in a sea of white flowers. You stood behind the stand, next to a photo of Sherlock. Seeing his face was too much. You couldn't look at it. You clutched the metal heart that was resting on your chest for assurance.  
"Um... I have known Sherlock for a year or two now..." you blinked slowly, not knowing what to say or how to say it. You glanced down at the generic speech on the paper in front of you, then screwed it up into a tight ball.   
"He was a good man. He was the first person I had ever met that understood me. He knew the way my mind worked because we were the same. He was not a fake. He was not a fraud. He was human. Pushed to do the unimaginable..." you glanced over to the coffin painfully. "By people who just wanted to feel better about themselves. Everybody wanted to believe it. All his brilliant deductions were just a sham. No-one feels inadequate – Sherlock Holmes is just an ordinary man." You quoted him on the night you had become fugitives. "You all wanted to believe it. You wanted to make yourselves feel better."   
Donovan lowered her head slightly.  
"I trusted Sherlock Holmes with my life and if I could go back, I would happily give my own life to save his." You sniffed, a sore lump in your throat, scratching like razors. "And to the reporters." You turned to the crowd that were straining to hear and get a scoop  
"I hope you know that you killed a man. You're all responsible for this. Your greed and need for the next big scoop, drove a man to kill himself. I hope you know that I will never forgive you. I hope you all burn." You spat.   
You could barely watch as they lowered the coffin into the ground. John and Mrs Hudson stood on either side of you squeezing your hands tightly.   
As you left the graveyard cameras flashed at you and John as you climbed into a car to go back home. But not Baker Street. Back to the abandoned bedsit.

"So why are you here?" The therapist asked  
"D'you read the papers?"  
"Sometimes."  
"Mmm, and you watch telly? You know why I'm here." There was a pained groan in your voice as he ended the sentence. "I'm here because..." Your voice broke and you couldn't continue. You looked down, swallowing hard as you fought not to weep.   
The therapist leant forward sympathetically.  
"What happened, (y/n)...?"  
You closed his eyes, trying to get control of yourself, then looked up at her again, your eyes full of loss. You cleared your throat and breathed heavily.  
"Sher..." your voice broke. You couldn't bring yourself continue and you cleared your throat again, swallowing hard.  
"You need to get it out." The woman urged gently.  
"My..." you didn't know what to call him. Lover? No. You sadly scoffed inwardly. " ... Sherlock Holmes ..." You sniffed, forcing your voice through the anguish. "... is dead."  
As the rain continued to pour down, you gazed blankly at the therapist.  
"There's stuff that you wanted to say..."   
You opened your mouth briefly to speak but then closed it.  
"...but didn't say it."  
"Yeah." Your voice cracked.  
"Say it now."  
"No." You said as more tears slipped down your face. You shook your head. "Sorry. I can't."

After the session you and Mrs Hudson sat in the back of a cab as it drove into the graveyard. The older woman was holding a bunch of flowers.  
You stood beside each other in front of a glossy black marble headstone. The landlady rested the flowers at the base of the headstone.   
"There's all the stuff, all the science equipment. I left it all in boxes. I don't know what needs doing. I thought I'd take it to a school." She looked at you.  
"Would you ...?"  
"I can't go back to the flat again – not at the moment." She took your arm sympathetically.  
"I'm angry." You took a deep breath through your nose, trying not to break down. She patted your arm gently.  
"It's okay, (y/n). There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made everyone feel." She gazed at the smooth black marble which simply bore the words SHERLOCK HOLMES.  
"All the marks on my table; and the noise – firing guns at half past one in the morning!"   
"Yeah."  
"Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine – keeping bodies where there's food!"  
"Yes." You closed your eyes as she continued, her own voice breaking.  
"And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!" She said sadly. You turned to her.  
"Yeah, listen: I-I'm not actually that angry, okay?"  
"Okay." She turned away, pulling her arm free of yours.  
"I'll leave you alone to, erm ..." her voice broke again. "... you know." Crying, she walked away, fishing out a tissue to blow her nose. 

You looked down at the grave, drawing in a deep breath. You looked back over your shoulder to see that Mrs Hudson was out of earshot, then turned back to the grave again.  
"Um ... mmm." You hummed thoughtfully, pulling yourself together a little. "You ... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm ... there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human ... human being that I've ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so ... There." You blew out a breath, whimpering slightly. Looking over your shoulder again, you walked over to the headstone and put your fingertips onto the top of it.   
"I was so alone, and I owe you so much." You took a tearful breath. "Okay." You sighed, then turned and started to walk away but you only reached the foot of the grave before you turned back again, finding something else you wanted to say.  
"No, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't ... be..." Your voice broke as you filled with tears "...dead. Would you do ...? Just for me, just stop it." You gestured down at the grave. "Stop this. Please." You pleaded helplessly, your voice broken and high.  
You sighed and lowered your head and standing there, completely broken. Reflected in the smooth marble of the headstone, your figure appeared to have the name SHERLOCK carved directly across your chest. You lowered your head further, covering your eyes with one hand as you wept. Finally you wiped your eyes, sniffing deeply as you raised your head, coming to attention in front him. You gently kissed your fingers and pressed them to the cold stone.


	33. The Detective Lives

Smut warning

Two years. It had been two years since Sherlock had selfishly took his own life. You hadn't moved on. He still haunted your memory. Your mind seemed to enjoy putting you through hell, making you see him at the most random of times. You had moved back into the bedsit that you had bought when you were trying to escape Sherlock. Not much had changed, in that sense. You logged onto your laptop, looking for a distraction. Your stomach dropped as you reached an online message board that held conspiracy theories of how Sherlock "faked his death."  
It wasn't fake. There was nothing fake about it. You still saw him plummeting to the ground in your dreams. It was haunting and your blood boiled at the strangers who thought they knew better than you. You slammed the lid of the laptop closed angrily. Your phone began to ring. It was John. You sighed and contemplated just letting it go to voicemail. You reached for it and answered just before it would've rang out.  
"Hello?" Your voice sounded abrasive and broken.  
"Hey, I'm going to come pick you up. We're going to Baker Street."  
"What? No. I can't John. Not yet."  
"(Y/N), we need to face it. And I need you to come with me. Mrs Hudson is alone. But I can't face her without you." You sighed raggedly.  
"Fine..." you whispered.

You began to play Clair De Lune in your head as you sat in the back of a taxi with John, trying desperately to avoid conversation. It'd just end up being uncomfortable for both of you. You drummed your fingers on your knee, as if it was a piano. Since the incident you had learnt numerous different languages, learned how to play the violin, piano and began composing, desperately trying to occupy yourself to escape reality. You had numerous melodies to your name, but no matter how hard you tried, they all came out sounding unbearably melancholy, like Moonlight Sonata. Whenever you became emotional you'd retreat to your mind and listen closely to the songs. You discovered your love for playing Nocturne No. 2 in E flat Major, Op. 9,2 by Chopin. It was a piece that spoke to you somehow. You closed your eyes and saw the sheet music come to life. The melodies calmed your anxiety as you heard everything clearly.   
"(Y/N)..." John said softly. "We're here..."

John and you sat at Mrs Hudson's kitchen table. She loudly slammed down a small tray containing a cup and saucer and a jug of milk, then went across the room to pick up a plate of biscuits, which she equally loudly slammed down onto the table. John watched her silently while she picked up a sugar bowl and thumped that onto the table. She hesitated, then pointed at the sugar bowl.  
"Oh no – you don't take it, do you?"  
"No." John replied  
"You forget a little thing like that."  
"Yeah..." You replied awkwardly.  
"You forget lots of little things, it seems." She said pointedly.  
"Uh-huh."  
Mrs H pointedly ran her finger between her nose and her upper lip while looking at John.  
"Not sure about that." John reached up to touch his moustache.  
"Ages you."  
You furrowed your brow, looking at the caterpillar growing on your brother's top lip. How didn't you notice it before?  
"Just trying it out." John mumbled.  
"Well, it ages you." You and John looked awkwardly at her.  
"Look..." You began.  
"I'm not your mother. I've no right to expect it..."  
"No..." You mumbled  
"...but just one phone call, (Y/N). I was worried sick. Her anger dissipated and she looked upset. "Just one phone call would have done. From either of you."  
"I know." John looked down.  
"After all we went through."  
You finally gathered the courage to look her in the eye.  
"Yes. I'm sorry."  
"Look, I understand how difficult it was for you after ... after ..." She stopped, shaking her head sadly.  
"I just let it slide, Mrs Hudson. I let it all slide. And it just got harder and harder to pick up the phone somehow." Sighing, you looked away for a moment, then turned your teary eyes back to hers. "D'you know what I mean?" After a moment, Mrs Hudson sighed too and reached out to put her hand on your arm. You immediately put your hand over hers as you hung your head sadly.

You sceptically followed John and Mrs Hudson upstairs. John opened the door to the living room. He stood in the doorway, looking into the room with you behind him. You played the piano in your head. It was quite dark because the curtains were closed, but lots of dust floated around, illuminated by the few shafts of light coming into the room. You continued to stand still, looking towards Sherlock's chair by the fireside. Mrs Hudson walked in and switched the lights on.  
"I couldn't face letting it out." She walked across to the right-hand window and pulled the curtains back, coughing at the dust.  
"He never liked me dusting."  
"No, I know." John said as he turned to look at the kitchen. Mrs Hudson walked across the room to open the other curtains.  
"So, why now? What changed your mind?" Drawing in a deep breath, John turned back to face you both.  
"Well, I've got some news." Mrs H turned to him and her face filled with horror.  
"Oh, God. Is it serious?"  
"What? No – no, I'm not ill. I've, er, well, I'm ... moving on." You blinked at your brother in confusion, not sure what he meant.  
"You're emigrating." She said softly.  
"Nope. Er, no – I've, er ... I've met someone."  
Mrs Hudson giggled with delight. Clapping her hands, she walked towards him smiling happily.  
"Oh, lovely!"  
"Yeah. We're getting married ... well, I'm gonna ask, anyway."  
You frowned at your brother, why were you only just hearing about this new woman now?  
"What's his name?"  
John let out a huge exasperated sigh. "It's a woman."  
"A woman?!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed.  
"Yes, of course it's a woman."  
The landlady laughed in surprise. "You really have moved on, haven't you?"  
"Mrs Hudson! How many times ...?" He sighed.  
"Live and let live – that's my motto." She smiled happily.  
"Listen to me: I am not gay!" John said, slowly getting louder.  
"Yes, well congratulations." You mumbled, your head spinning.  
You turned and left the room, the piano music in your head getting louder as you reached a higher state of emotional distress. You ran down the stairs and immediately hailed a cab.

You returned to your tiny apartment and locked the door, sinking to the floor as your breathing became heavier and more frantic. You slumped against the door, desperately humming Moonlight Sonata and drumming your fingers on the floor. You retreated to your mind palace, the white walls and bookshelves surrounding you. You walked to the white grand piano by the fireplace. You sat down as you tried to control your breathing. You began to play. When the music entered your ears you felt soothed. You began to breathe more steadily. You melded into the music, becoming one with the notes. You imagined yourself in a flowing white dress, with your hair perfectly done, dancing in a large ballroom with a tall stranger wearing a mask. He twirled you around as you gracefully glided across the floor together, perfectly in sync. You reached for the stranger's mask and gently pulled it away, revealing the face of Sherlock. Your eyes flew open and the music abruptly stopped. You furrowed your brow as you wiped your face that was now wet with tears. You flew over to your bed and opened your laptop, deciding you would watch a film to distract yourself. 

You apparently fell asleep halfway through the movie. You weren't too upset, because it was terrible anyway. You stood up and stretched out. It was roughly 8pm. John would be proposing to his girlfriend by now. You sighed, reaching out and taking your violin from off your couch. You began to play. You grimaced as the sad tune reminded you of the mopey one Sherlock composed after the Adler incident. You continued playing closing your eyes, and making the music your own. In your head you accompanied yourself on the piano. You took a break to write down the notes. You were shocked out of your trance like state by your phone rang out a text alert. You sighed irritably as you dropped the pencil.

(Y/N) We really need to talk.  
John

You dropped your phone and sighed deeply. You shook your head. You didn't need to talk. But you knew what you needed to do. 

You walked into the living room and turned on the lights. You pulled in a ragged breath as you took everything in. The skull on the heavily dinted mantel piece, the framed bat and beetles that sat beneath the mirror, the yellow smiley face on the wall all brought back a flood of memories. You blinked slowly as you moved towards Sherlock's chair. You took a breath as you lowered yourself into it. A plume of dust surrounded you, as it had not been used in two years. You closed your eyes and placed your fingers into a tent shape under your chin, just like he used to. You heard clattering downstairs. You stood and walked to the kitchen. Your mugs sat there, three chipped and damaged Union Jacks in a row. You picked up yours, the shiniest and most well looked after of the trio. You turned it over in your hands, thoroughly inspecting it with a slight smile. You heard the door creak open behind you.  
"Don't worry, Mrs Hudson, it's just me." You called out. There was an eerie silence. You began to walk to the door. She was probably mad at you.  
"I'm sorry for just storming off earlier, I couldn't process being back here..." you trailed off as you stopped in your tracks. In front of you stood the dead man. You dropped the mug and it shattered loudly. You flung your hand over your mouth as you scurried to the kitchen, not believing your own eyes. You began to cry softly, despising your own brain for putting you through this again. You held your shaky hands in front of you as you paced the floor. You turned to the counter and leant on it, your elbows resting on the counter as you frantically ran your hands through your hair. You began to hum.  
"Sonata No. 16." Sherlock's baritone voice said smoothly.  
You grabbed a mug from the counter and spun around, brandishing it like a weapon. "Nononono..."  
"Hello, (y/n)."  
"Why are you doing this?" You pleaded with your own mind.

"Oooh! (Y/N) Are you ok love I heard shouting..." Mrs Hudson said as she climbed the stairs. Just as she approached the door, she screamed loudly. You blinked in confusion.  
"S-Sherlock!?" She exclaimed.  
"Y-You see him too?" You stammered.  
"So in short, not actually dead." He said with a weak smile.  
"Y-you... y-you..." You blubbed. You heard a set of feet coming up the stars.  
"Mrs Hudson!? Are you ok?" Your brother shouted.  
"It's ok, (Y/N)..." Sherlock said as he began to approach you. John ran into the living room and wrapped his arms around Mrs Hudson to stop her screaming. "You ARSEHOLE!" You shouted, launching the mug at his head. He ducked down quickly and the mug smashed against the wall behind him. "Two years! Two years you let me think you were dead! You let me grieve, for TWO YEARS!" You roared in upset. Your sight blurred with tears as you looked desperately at John. His face was angry but not shocked. He knew. "How long have you known, John?" You snapped at him.  
"I was as shocked as you, he interrupted my proposal." John frowned. You nodded slowly, anger and upset fuelling you, you turned back to the counter, which now only housed John's mug, trying to calm yourself.

"Now I'm beginning to sense I owe you an apology..." You cut him off by spinning around and launching the last mug at him. He quickly dodged once more.  
"Are you quite done throwing things at me?" You scoffed at his stupidity. "Two years, and you thought I'd be happy to see you?" You snapped. "I-" you took a moment, swallowing the lump in your throat. "I loved you... and you..." The room fell quiet. This was the first time you had ever actually admitted it to yourself. It made sense, though. The fluttering in your stomach when you looked at him, your raised pulse and the flush in your cheeks when he walked into a room. It all added up. Paying attention to the way he smelt, the loss of sleep over him, the euphoria you felt when you kissed him. Love. You frowned. 

"You broke my heart Sherlock." You spat. You looked to John and Mrs Hudson. They both looked shocked by your confession. You had spent so long denying it but you couldn't hold onto it anymore, not after he hurt you so much.

"Get out." Sherlock snapped to John and Mrs Hudson  
"But-!" John protested.  
"OUT!" He shouted.  
"Come on, John." The older woman said wobbly, pulling him away.  
You watched your brother leave with wide, panicked eyes. You turned back to Sherlock.  
"Who knew?"  
"A few people..." You scoffed.  
"Who, Sherlock!?" You raised your voice.  
"Mycroft..."  
"Oh so was it his plan?"  
"Not quite..."  
"Who else?"  
"Molly Hooper and a small amount of my homeless network..."  
"Molly Hooper and few hundred tramps!?" You rolled your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose.  
"No! Twenty-five at most..." You scoffed again.  
"One word. One word is all I would've needed. To let me know you were alive."  
"I've nearly been in contact so many times but..." You shook your head disbelievingly.  
"But what, Sherlock?"  
"But I couldn't. I didn't know how... because..." He sighed. "I... love you too..."

"Oh no, Sherlock. Loved. Past tense. I grieved over you for two years. My grieving period is over." 

———————— Smut Warning  
You headed to the door, but he stopped, pinning you against the wall. His hot ragged breath warmed your face as he looked into your eyes. You felt the blood rush to your cheeks. You tried to turn your face away from his, but he put his thumb under your chin and held it in place as he slowly moved in, closing his eyes and sealing his lips on yours. Your hands instinctively moved to his hair, your fingers tangling in his curls. He roughly kissed you, using one arm to keep you pinned against the wall, while the other that had held your face snaked down to your waist, pulling you in closer. He pulled back for a moment as you both gasped for breath. You looked in to his crystal eyes for the first time in years, and everything felt better. You felt at home. He didn't give you time to say anything before he pressed his lips against yours again. He bit your lip lightly, causing you to gasp slightly, and giving him the access he craved. He let his tongue explore your mouth, wanting to know every inch of you. You chased his tongue with your own for a moment, but then he withdrew and sucked on your top lip for a moment. He released you from his grasp for a moment as he slipped his coat off, but then immediately returned to his previous position. He pulled you away from the wall and led you towards the couch, still joint at the lips. He gently pushed you down and pinned you to the cool leather. You reached up to his shirt and unbuttoned it as you passionately kissed him back. He gently shimmied it off as he continued to kiss you. He broke off the kiss as he looked at you, taking in your flushed face beneath him. He lowered his mouth to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses down to your collarbone as he began to remove your shirt. He slipped his hand over your bra as you continued to kiss him. He gently squoze your soft chest, causing you to gasp lightly. You pushed him back slightly, trying to fight for dominance. He grinned slightly into the kiss. You felt something hard against your leg. You smiled slightly as you pulled away, a string of saliva keeping the two of you connected.  
"Excited?" You teased  
"Very." He chuckled.  
"Well... we will have to do something about that, won't we?" You purred lightly, as you kissed him again.  
"Let's go to the bedroom." He said, his baritone voice making you swoon. You nodded, as he lead you to the bedroom. He shut the door behind you both, and reached for your pants, pulling them off. You reached for his belt in response, stripping you both down to your underwear. He unclamped your bra and slid it off of you then slipped his hands under your last remaining item of clothing. He knew exactly where to touch and how to move. You felt pure bliss under his light touch. He gently but down on your exposed nipple, causing you to moan lightly. You knew the floors and walls were thin, so you had to be quiet for fear (and excitement) of being caught in the act. Your eyelids fluttered and you whimpered quietly as he gently rubbed against your sensitive spot. You bit your lip as your eyes rolled back. He then completely removed your underwear before reaching into his dresser, pulling out a small plastic packet.  
"You kept condoms in your dresser? Aren't you a virgin?" You teased.  
"I had them for an experiment, but this, this is more interesting." He smirked, his smug look driving you wild. He put the piece of latex on, and steadied himself at your entrance. He looked at you in the eye, and you nodded at him, signalling you were ready. 

He slipped inside of you with a slight moan. You but your lip as you quivered beneath him. He began to move his hips, hitting you in the right spot. You began to see stars. It was your sin to share. A fantasy for the both of you. Shameless Ecstasy. Blatant sex.


	34. Back To Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have read chapter 35 already (previously titled “new clients) you don’t need to read this update! I decided to merge the chapters to make one longer chapter instead of two short ones!

You woke up next to Sherlock. Your legs were still tangled together and you were resting your head on his bare chest as it steadily rose and fell. You smiled slightly, taking in the beauty of his sleeping face.  
"You're staring." He said, his eyes still closed. You smiled slightly.  
"Yes, I am." He cracked a small smile, his eyes still closed. You traced your fingers along his bare skin. His eyes fluttered open as you did so. You looked at his skin carefully, taking in every blemish. You noticed some scars that looked relatively new.  
"How did you get them?" You asked as you ran your fingers over the raised skin.  
"I was in Serbia, dismantling Moriarty's network. Serbia was the last piece of the puzzle, and I got caught breaking in to a prison, and they beat me for answers." You frowned.  
"How did you get out?"  
"After Mycroft had his fill of watching me being beaten, he got me out."  
"Mycroft? Undercover? Fieldwork is not really his natural milieu."  
"Exactly what he said." He lightly chuckled.  
"So why did he drag you out? Surely there was a reason for him going undercover to bring you back?"  
"London is in danger. There's an imminent terrorist attack and I need your help." He sighed. You nodded.  
"So how did John react?"  
"Very well, actually."  
"He hit you, didn't he?"  
"Many times." He chuckled. You smiled up at him.  
"Not surprised."  
"You Watsons are very violent aren't you? John head-butting me and trying to strangle me, and you throwing mugs at me." You both chuckled again.  
"To be fair, you did put me through hell for two years. I couldn't cope." You frowned slightly.  
"Yeah, I saw the news article after the... funeral." He cleared his throat awkwardly.  
"Oh god." You rubbed your eyes in embarrassment.  
"You were so protective of me..." he looked into your eyes for a moment then lifted your chin to his, and kissed you deeply. "Thank you, (y/n)."  
"Yes, just promise me you won't do anything like that again."  
"I promise."  
"I'm still mad at you, though." He frowned. You rolled your eyes lightly with a small smile. "It takes more than a shag to get someone to forgive you. Also, I'd suggest you don't try that option with John." You chuckled.  
"Damn, there goes my plans." He said sarcastically. You grinned up at him. "Breakfast?" He asked.  
"You've been gone for two years. You won't have any food in." You pointed out.  
"Then we'll go out." You nodded.  
"Yeah, let me just find my clothes." You laughed lightly.  
"You don't have anything here?"  
"No, I moved out." You said pointedly.  
"Oh." He frowned. "Will you come back?"  
"You mean move back in with you?"  
He nodded.  
"Maybe. It depends." You smiled at him sweetly, climbing out of bed and looking around the room for your underwear. You looked back to Sherlock to see him eyeing you up.  
"Hmmm maybe I'll skip breakfast and have you instead." You giggled lightly.  
"Well, tough I'm hungry." You said, slipping on yesterday's clothes. He frowned slightly.  
"Alright then." He sighed as he hauled himself out of bed. You looked over to him as you fastened your blouse.  
"On second thought..." you grinned.  
"Nope, you had your chance. We're going for breakfast." He teased.  
"Fine..." you drawled as he pulled on his own clothing. You were fixing your hair in the mirror when Sherlock came from behind and wrapped his arms around you, nuzzling his face into your neck. You smiled as you felt his lips on your skin once more. 

After some procrastination, you and Sherlock ended up in a little French café near Regent's Park. You ordered a pot of coffee between you, and some pastries. You munched down happily as Sherlock sipped on his coffee, watching you with a slight smile. You dusted the crumbs from your face as you took a sip of your own coffee.  
"That was good!" You exclaimed happily, rubbing your full stomach.  
"Yeah."  
"So how do you know this one? Got him off murder charge? Robbery?"  
"I helped him fit a sink." You both chuckled lightly.  
"You're full of surprises, you know?"  
"And so are you."  
"You're surprised by me? The man who knows everything?"  
"I don't know everything..."  
"Yeah you're right, you don't know that the earth goes around the sun." You teased.  
"This again?" He chuckled. "I may not know many things, but I do know the important stuff. Like, who the killer is, the stuff I need to solve cases, and that I love you."  
You blinked, smiling.  
"The great Sherlock Holmes has feelings?" You teased.  
"I thought I showed you that last night?" He smirked, causing you to blush.  
"Can I get you anything else, madam?" The waiter asked, in a thick French accent.  
"No, thank you."  
"Shall we go then?" He asked, and you responded with a curt nod. The tall man stood up and pulled on his coat, then turned to you as you did the same. "Give my regards to Gabriel." Sherlock said to the waiter.

When you arrived back to the apartment, Mycroft was sat in John's seat.  
"Hello, brother mine." He said as you both approached the door.  
"Ah, Mycroft. To what do I owe the displeasure?" Sherlock said, striding into the living room.  
"The terror alert has been raised to Critical." He said as his younger brother sat opposite to him, in front of the unlit fire. "We have solid information. An attack is coming." He glanced over to you.  
"'Solid information.' A secret terrorist organisation's planning an attack – that's what secret terrorist organisations do, isn't it? It's their version of golf."  
"An agent gave his life to tell us that."  
"Oh, well, perhaps he shouldn't have done. He was obviously just trying to show off. Tea, (y/n)?"  
Mycroft appeared to hold back a sigh. "None of these markers of yours is behaving in any way suspiciously?"  
"No, Mycroft, but you have to trust me. I'll find the answer. It'll be in an odd phrase in an online blog, or an unexpected trip to the countryside, or a misplaced Lonely Hearts ad."  
You made your way to the kitchen, looking in the fridge. Mrs Hudson had bought in some stuff. You smiled as you made you and Sherlock some tea.  
"I've given the Prime Minister my personal assurance you're on the case."  
"I am on the case. We're both on the case. Look at us right now."  
"Don't be smart."  
"That takes me back." He scoffed then mimicked a child's voice "'Don't be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one.'" You walked into the living room and handed Sherlock one of the mugs.  
"I am the smart one."  
Sherlock looked off to the side reflectively.  
"I used to think I was an idiot."  
"Both of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock. We had nothing else to go on 'til we met other children."  
"Oh, yes. That was a mistake." You smiled gently. You hadn't heard much about Sherlock as a child and it made you happy to hear about it.  
"Ghastly. What were they thinking of?"  
"Probably something about trying to make friends."  
"Oh yes. Friends. Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now." Mycroft flicked his eyes to you. "Or is it girlfriends now?"  
"And you don't? Ever?" Sherlock looked to you. "And we haven't spoken about it yet." You smiled at him slightly.  
"Well you've had sex, so you clearly have feelings for her." You blushed wildly. Of course he would've noticed.  
"If you seem slow to me, Sherlock, can you imagine what real people are like? I'm living in a world of goldfish." Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of him and looked at his brother.  
"Yes, but I've been away for two years."  
"So?"  
Sherlock shrugged "Oh, I don't know. I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a ... goldfish."  
"Change the subject – now!" Mycroft looked horrified at the notion. He stood up and walked over to the fireplace.  
"Rest assured, Mycroft – whatever this underground network of yours is up to, the secret will reside in something seemingly insignificant or bizarre."  
Mrs Hudson, carrying a tray of tea things, walks into the room with her traditional  
"Yoo-hoo!"  
"Speaking of which..." Sherlock smiled.  
"I can't believe it. I just can't believe it! Him – sitting in his chair again!" She said happily, putting the tray on the dining table. She looked at Mycroft.  
"Oh, isn't it wonderful, Mr Holmes?"  
"I can barely contain myself!" Mycroft said sarcastically.  
"Oh, he really can, you know."  
"He's secretly pleased to see you underneath all that..." She pulled a sour face.  
"Sorry – which of us?"  
"Both of you." She said, sharing a smile with you as she left the room.  
"Let's play something."  
Mycroft sighed exasperatedly. "Why are we playing games?"  
"Well, London's terror alert has been raised to Critical." He flailed his legs over the table in front of him and stood up. "I'm just passing the time. Let's do deductions." He walked over to the dining table and picked up a woollen bobble hat with earflaps and dangly pom poms hanging from each flap.  
"Client left this while I was out. What d'you reckon?"  
He tossed it to his brother.  
"I'm busy." The older Holmes said as he caught the hat.  
"Oh, go on. It's been an age."  
Mycroft lifted the hat to his nose and sniffs, then looked across to Sherlock.  
"I always win."  
"Which is why you can't resist."  
"I find nothing irresistible in the hat of a well-travelled anxious sentimental unfit creature of habit with appalling halitosis..." He stopped as he noticed Sherlock's widening smile.  
"Damn." He threw the hat back to Sherlock.  
"Isolated, too, don't you think?"  
"Why would he be isolated?"  
"'He'?"  
"Obviously."  
"Why? Size of the hat?" Sherlock asked.  
"Don't be silly. Some women have large heads too."  
Sherlock flinched slightly, possibly at Mycroft's insult to his intelligence.  
"No – he's recently had his hair cut. You can see the little hairs adhering to the perspiration stains on the inside." Sherlock looked down at the hat, pouting slightly, like he did when you corrected him.  
"Some women have short hair, too."  
"Balance of probability."  
"Not that you've ever spoken to a woman with short hair – or, you know, a woman." You teased.  
"Stains show he's out of condition, and he's sentimental because the hat has been repaired three, four..."  
"Five times." Sherlock said as he threw the hat back to his brother. "Very neatly. The cost of the repairs exceeds the cost of the hat, so he's mawkishly attached to it, but it's more than that. One, perhaps two, patches would indicate sentimentality, but five? Five's excessive behaviour. Obsessive compulsive."  
"Hardly. Your client left it behind. What sort of an obsessive compulsive would do that?" He threw the hat back to Sherlock, who grabbed it with an exasperated grimace.  
"The earlier patches are extensively sun-bleached, so he's worn it abroad – in Peru."  
"Peru?"  
"This is a chullo – the classic headgear of the Andes. It's made of alpaca."  
"No." Sherlock smirked.  
"No?"  
"Icelandic sheep wool. Similar, but very distinctive if you know what you're looking for. I've written a blog on the varying tensile strengths of different natural fibres."  
"I'm sure there's a crying need for that." You mumbled. Sherlock paused for a moment looking at you with a mock hurt look, then turned back to his brother.  
"You said he was anxious."  
"The bobble on the left side has been badly chewed, which shows he's a man of a nervous disposition but..."  
"... but also a creature of habit because he hasn't chewed the bobble on the right." Sherlock spoke over him.  
"Precisely." Sherlock lifted the hat and sniffed it before lowering it again, grimacing.  
"Brief sniff of the offending bobble tells us everything we need to know about the state of his breath." He turned away. "Brilliant!" He said sarcastically.  
"Elementary."  
"But you've missed his isolation."  
"I don't see it."  
"Plain as day." You said.  
"Where?"  
"There for all to see." Sherlock said.  
"Tell me."  
"Plain as the nose on your ..."  
"Tell me." Mycroft cut Sherlock off.  
"Well, anybody who wears a hat as stupid as this isn't in the habit of hanging around other people, is he?"  
"Not at all. Maybe he just doesn't mind being different. He doesn't necessarily have to be isolated."  
"Exactly." Sherlock looked down at the hat smugly. Mycroft blinked several times, apparently confused.  
"I'm sorry?"  
"He's different – so what? Why would he mind? You're quite right." He lifted the hat and perches it on the top of his head, then looked pointedly at his brother. You smiled. "Why would anyone mind?" Mycroft opened his mouth but seemed to struggle to speak for a moment.  
"... I'm not lonely, Sherlock." Sherlock tilted his head down and looked closely at him, then steps nearer with an intense expression on his face.  
"How would you know?" Taking the hat off, he turned away.  
"Yes. Back to work if you don't mind. Good morning." Looking a little wide-eyed as a result of the recent conversation, he headed for the door. Behind him, Sherlock winked at you, who giggled happily.  
Turned to face the wall of information behind the sofa.  
"Right. Back to work." He smirked.

Sherlock held up his phone and looked at the latest photos of one of his 'markers'. Mrs Hudson came to the door of the living room and watched as Sherlock drew a cross over the photo of the man which is pinned to the wall.  
"Sherlock." You said as you approached him from behind.   
"Mm?" He mumbled absently.  
"Talk to John."  
"I tried talking to him. He made his position quite clear."   
"What did he say?"  
"Fuck off." He said bluntly with a shrug.  
"Ooh dear!" Mrs Hudson called in shock as she turned away.  
"Yeah, well that's John." You sighed as you settled in to John's old arm chair as you sipped on a cup of tea.  
"Oh also dears..." Mrs Hudson cleared her throat awkwardly. "I know that you haven't seen each other in two years, but um..." she blushed. "Please try to keep it down next time..."   
You coughed in surprise, causing you to almost spit out your drink. You felt your face flush red as you looked at Sherlock. He simply smirked slightly.   
"Of course, Mrs Hudson." She curtly nodded before leaving. Sherlock spun to look at you with a gigantic smirk on his face.   
"What're you looking so smug about?" You frowned at him.  
"Well, we've been caught. There's no point in trying to hide it now."  
You nodded. "I guess that makes things easier." Your face fell. "Oh god do you think John..." you cringed.  
"Probably. He won't be happy, but he'll get over it eventually. I take it as you told him about us after..." he trailed off, not wanting to finish the awkward question.  
"After you pretended to kill yourself? Yes. He said he would've bollocked you if you were still around."  
"Yeah, I would've guessed. He said that I hurt you when I, um... crashed his date." You smirked slightly.  
"That's the second time you've done that."  
"Done what?"  
"Crashed my brothers dates. You really need to stop doing that."   
"Yes, anyway. He punched me and told me that he'd personally kill me if I hurt you again." You chuckled.  
"Us Watsons look out for each other." You said with a shrug. A knock came at the door.  
"Would you look at that, a client!" He clapped happily.

"Well, absolutely no one should have been able to empty that bank account other than myself and Helen." The man gestured to the woman to his right side. Sherlock looked closely at him, zooming in on his jacket, then his hairline and then the skin above his eyes. He stood and walked closer to him.  
"Why didn't you assume it was your wife?"  
"Because I've always had total faith in her."  
"No – it's because you emptied it." He pointed at the three areas on the man at which he had just looked at and began to fire his deductions at him quickly. "Weight loss, hair dye, Botox; affair." Whipping out a business card, he held it out to Mrs Harcourt. "Lawyer. Next!" You smiled at him slightly. You'd missed him and his blunt deductions.

Sherlock was sitting on a stool close to a woman who sat on the sofa. He is clasped her hands and patted them sympathetically while he spoke softly to her. "And your pen pal's emails just stopped, did they?"   
The woman nodded, whimpering as she cried. You looked across to her but then continued typing on your laptop at the dining table, deciding you couldn't be bothered with it. An older man was sitting beside the woman.  
"And you really thought he was the one, didn't you? The love of your life?" You looked at Sherlock and smiled slightly. As the woman took off her glasses and cried harder, Sherlock turned and looked at you for a moment, then stood and walked across to you. Keeping his back to the clients, he spoke quietly. "Stepfather posing as online boyfriend."  
"Breaks it off, breaks her heart. She swears off relationships, stays at home – he still has her wage coming in." You nodded in agreement. Sherlock turned to the man and addressed him sternly.   
"Mr Windibank, you have been a complete and utter ..."  
You coughed to cut him off.  
"Right, sorry." Sherlock dusted himself off.  
"You see, your stepfather has been tricking you. He posed as your friend and then cut off all ties so he'd still have your money coming through. I am very sorry. I suggest you move out."

You fixed Sherlock a mug of tea and handed it to him as he sat in his chair. He looked over to his violin.  
"You play, right?"   
"Yeah, but I prefer piano."  
"I don't think we could fit a piano in here." He laughed slightly. "Play me something." He said as he got up and handed you the violin and bow. You laughed lightly.  
"No, I'll just embarrass myself. You're so much better than I am."   
"Oh? That's new. You've never said that before." He smirked slightly. "But I don't care, play." He urged, placing it in your hands. You sighed and began to play 'Spring'.   
He shook his head in disapproval. "No. Play you."   
You looked at him in confusion for a moment before shaking it off and playing the song that sounded like Sherlock's own. Sherlock smiled slightly.   
"You finished my song."  
"I changed it." You corrected as you continued to play, moving gently with the music.   
"You're very good." Sherlock nodded.  
"Thank you." You said as you finished with a flourish. He walked over to you, and took the violin from your grip and moving it back to its original position. 

The tall man then turned back to you and looked at your face for a moment, then placed his fingers under your chin and bent down slightly to your face. You looked into his icy blue eyes and smiled slightly, feeling butterflies flying about in your stomach. He gently caressed your cheek and then sealed his lips on top of yours. You felt fireworks once more. Your hands flew to his hair, gently tugging on his curls as you passionately returned his kiss. You could feel him smirk into the kiss, which spurred you on even more. You both backed up to the couch, and you gently pushed him down as you were still locking lips. You climbed on top of him and straddled him while gently biting his lower lip. You felt his large hands on your waist, pulling you closer. Both completely infatuated with the other, fighting for power. 

A cough made you jump off of Sherlock. You stared at your feet, panting heavily and face burning red.   
"Um. Sorry to interrupt... again." Lestrade coughed awkwardly. Sherlock sighed irritably.   
"Yes well what do you want? We were busy."  
"Obviously..." You finally looked up at him. "Nice to see you back, (y/n)." He said as he rubbed the back of his neck.  
"Uh... you too."   
"I think you'll like this one Sherlock."

Greg Lestrade tore down the police tape sealing a door inside a building.   
"This one's got us all baffled."  
"Mmm. I don't doubt it."  
Greg opened the door and led Sherlock and you down the stairs into a basement. At the foot of the stairs, a large hole had been knocked through the brickwork of one wall. You went through the hole and Greg switched on the mobile lighting which had been set up in the room. As he switched more lights on, the "skeleton mystery" which you had been reading about earlier was revealed. A white-painted wooden table sat at the far end of the room and seated on a chair behind it was a skeleton dressed in an old-fashioned suit. There was a carafe and a glass and what looked like a writing set on the table in front of it. The corpse was holding a syringe in one skeletal hand. Frowning, you could tell Sherlock was already zooming in on details of the scene before he walked across the room, and laid his pouch of tools on the table to get to work, examining the corpse in minute detail. Sherlock sniffed at the body and tries to decide what he is picking up.  
Moving on, he sniffed again. He sniffed more deeply: Fire Damage. He straightened up and shut his magnifier. Sherlock got his phone out and held it up high to try and get a signal.  
"On to something?"  
"Mm, maybe."  
He walked around to the other side of the table and continued his investigations. As Sherlock carefully used tweezers to lift the lapel of the skeleton's jacket, you still stood some distance away. Greg leant close to Sherlock and speaks softly.  
"Where's John? Does he know about you and (y/n)."  
"I'd assume so."   
He moved away from the table and turned back to look at the whole picture. Cement dust drifted down from the ceiling as a distant rumbling could be heard.   
"Trains?"  
"Trains." Sherlock confirmed. He dropped into a squat and called up a mental compass showing the orientation of the room. Steepling his fingers in front of his mouth he zoomed in on the corpse. You walked across to the body and looked at the bones in its neck. Sherlock stood up and walked over to join you.  
"Male, forty to fifty." You said.  
"Yep."  
"This skeleton – it's ... it can't be any more than ..."  
"Six months old." You and Sherlock said simultaneously. You both grinned at eachother. You could kiss him all over again.


	35. St James The Less

Sherlock had found a hidden compartment in the side of the table and he opened it, sliding out a book from inside it. He blew the dust from the cover, gave it a sarcastic glance and showed it to you. Scrawled across the cover were the words:   
How I Did It By Jack the Ripper   
"Hmm." You hummed in disbelief. Sherlock flamboyantly dropped the book onto the table. Greg leant forward to peer at the cover.  
"'How I Did It' by Jack the Ripper?!" He exclaimed.  
"Mm-hm."   
"It's impossible!"  
"Welcome to my world." Greg grinned with delight. As Sherlock leant down to repack his pouch of tools, Sherlock grimaced, flailing towards his own head. Continuing to repack his pouch, he spoke more loudly to a grinning Greg.  
"I won't insult your intelligence by explaining it to you."  
"No, please – insult away!" Greg chuckled. Sherlock had already picked up his pouch and was heading for the door but he stopped for a moment. Appearing confused and disoriented by something, Sherlock turned back to Greg.   
"The-the-the corpse is-is six months old; it's dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum. It's been displayed on a dummy for many years in a case facing south-east judging from the fading of the fabric. It was sold off in a fire-damage sale ..." He got his phone out and showed the screen to Greg "... a week ago."  
"So the whole thing was a fake." Greg sighed sadly  
"Yes." He turned and headed out of the room.  
"Looked so promising." Greg frowned at you.  
"Facile." Sherlock called.  
"Why would someone go to all that trouble?" You mumbled.  
"Why indeed, (y/n)?"

Sherlock – with you at his side – pushed the doorbell to a flat. Instead of the bell ringing or buzzing, it played a recording of an Underground announcement of a male voice saying, "Mind the gap. Mind the gap." You giggled quietly as a young man answered the door. Sherlock immediately held out the bobble hat towards him.   
"Oh. Thanks for hanging on to it."   
"No problem." Taking the hat, the man led you inside.   
"So, what's this all about, Mr Shilcott?" Sherlock asked. He led you into a room which was mostly taken up by a train set with Tube trains running round it. On the wall was a photo of the man, wearing his bobble hat, grinning happily and doing a thumbs-up to the camera while he stood in front of a train which didn't seem to be British. The rest of the room was full of all sorts of different train memorabilia.  
"My girlfriend's a big fan of yours."  
"Girlfriend?" Sherlock chuckled in shock. You threw him a disapproving look. Howard looked at him indignantly.  
"Sorry. Do go on." He cleared his throat awkwardly.  
" I like trains."  
"Yyyes." Sherlock drew out the word.  
"I work on the Tube, on the District Line, and part of my job is to wipe the security footage after it's been cleared." He sat down at his computer. "I was just whizzing through and, er, I found something a bit bizarre." He turned towards the computer and Sherlock threw a silent and quirky look of fake excitement at you, which you responded to with a fake smile. Howard pulled up the relevant footage and you walked to either side of him to look at the screen, which showed the platform of a station. A train was stationary and its doors were open. There was only one man on the platform. He looked like a business man and was carrying a briefcase.  
"Now, this was a week ago. The last train on the Friday night, Westminster station, and this man gets into the last car."  
"'Car'?" You asked.  
"They're cars, not carriages. It's a legacy of the early American involvement in the Tube system."   
You turned and threw a look at Sherlock.  
"He said he liked trains." He smirked.  
"And the next stop ..." he pulled up the appropriate footage. "... St James's Park station ... and ..." The footage showed the doors of the last car opening – and nobody got out. Suddenly Sherlock was more interested. The doors closed again.   
"I thought you'd like it." He replayed the earlier footage. "He gets into the last car at Westminster, the only passenger ..." He switched to the later footage. "... and the car is empty at St James's Park station. Explain that, Mr Holmes."  
"Couldn't he have just jumped off?" Sherlock shook his head.  
"There's a safety mechanism that prevents the doors from opening in transit. But there's something else. The driver of that train hasn't been to work since. According to his flatmate, he's on holiday. Came into some money."  
"Bought off?" You asked as you gazed at Sherlock.  
"So if the driver of the train was in on it, then the passenger did get off." Sherlock hummed  
"There's nowhere he could go. It's a straight run on the District Line between the two stations. There's no side tunnels, no maintenance tunnels – nothing on any map. Nothing. The train never stops, and the man vanishes. Good, innit?!" Sherlock closed his eyes.  
"I know that face." He said, going through his mind for something. You gazed at him with a slight smile. His eyes snapped open, you followed him as he physically relocated to the stairs outside the flat, although you knew he wasn't consciously doing this, but he frowned when he realised where he was, as if he didn't remember moving. He shut his eyes to get back into the zone.  
"The journey between those stations usually takes five minutes. That journey took ten minutes – ten minutes to get from Westminster to St James's Park. So I'm going to need maps – lots of maps, older maps, all the maps. Fancy some chips?"   
"What?"  
"I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone Road. The owner always gives me extra portions."  
"Did you get him off a murder charge?" You asked while you slipped down the steps next to him.  
"No – I helped him put up some shelves."  
You giggles and he smiled briefly. You looked at him, taking every little detail in. His pupils dilated, his cheeks slightly flushed pink. You smiled and leant in to kiss him gently. His lips brushed against yours momentarily before he pulled back.  
“So?”  
“So what?” You asked.  
“Are we getting chips?” He smirked. You chuckled slightly.  
“Yeah why not.” He opened the door and you went through first. It was lightly snowing. He wrapped his scarf around his neck again he slipped his hands into his pockets and began to walk ahead, his long legs carrying him quicker than your natural speed so you had to power walk to keep by his side. You slipped your hand into his pocket and laced your fingers between his. He looked at you with a slight smile.  
“Holding hands is a thing people actually do?”   
“Yes it is.” You giggled.  
“Why?” His face was a look of pure confusion which made you smile.  
“Why do people do a lot of things? They’ve been taught it from a young age.” He nodded slightly as he closed his fingers around yours. His hands were warm in the cold weather. “And also, my hands are cold and yours can warm them up.” He chuckled slightly as you continued to walk.

The fish shop that Sherlock had spoken about turned out to be a tiny van on the middle of a random street. The snow had become slightly heavier as Sherlock ordered two small paper wrapped packages of chips. He handed you one as he sat at the bus stop next to you. You pulled one of the steaming chips from the packaging and blew on it, your breath creating condensation in the cold air.  
“So what’s this about?” You asked as you swallowed the burning hot chip clumsily.  
“Saying sorry.”  
“About what?”  
“Everything I put you through.”  
“It’s ok, I’m just glad you’re back.” You reached out and squeezed his hand slightly, almost as you were checking that he was real and not a hallucination.  
“No, I mean it.”   
You nodded slightly. “So why?”  
“Why?”  
“Why did you do it?”   
“I had to, you were all in danger. Moriarty... he had snipers that were set to kill you, John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade... if they didn’t see me jump. And obviously I couldn’t let that happen. I calculated that there were thirteen possibilities once I’d invited Moriarty onto the roof. I wanted to avoid dying if at all possible. The first scenario involved hurling myself into a parked hospital van filled with washing bags. Impossible. The angle was too steep. Secondly, a system of Japanese wrestling...”  
“You know, for a genius you can be remarkably thick.” You chuckled slightly.  
“What?” He cocked his head as he placed a chip in his mouth.  
“I don’t care how you faked it, Sherlock. I wanna know why.” You sighed and pointed to yourself, not knowing how to put it in to words.  
“ Why? Because Moriarty had to be stopped. We’ve just been through that.”  
“No Sherlock. Why me? Why... the note?” Remembering it brought a wave of unreleased emotions. Sadness, anger. You began to well up.  
“Oh. ‘Why’ as in... I see. Yes. ‘Why?’ That’s a little more difficult to explain.”  
“I’ve got all night.” You said, placing another chip in your mouth and chewing slowly.  
“Actually, um, that was mostly Mycroft’s idea.”  
You nodded.   
“It traumatised me, Sherlock.” You said as tears began to fall. “I couldn’t sleep for months because every time I closed my eyes I replayed that call. I saw you falling.” He frowned as you furiously tried to wipe away the tears, but each time you wiped, they returned. Sherlock placed his chips on the bench next to him and placed his warm hands on either side of your face, grounding you. You felt him gently wipe his thumbs on your cheeks. You leant into his touch.  
“I know. If I could go back I would make sure you knew that it wasn’t real and all the reasons why I had to do it. I wish I had spoken to you right after. That I had gotten in touch earlier. I wish I hadn’t lost two years I could’ve spent being with you.”   
You closed your eyes as you calmed down. He placed his forehead to yours, his hot breath on your skin as you gently embraced. 

You and Sherlock walked home together in almost complete silence. It wasn’t that you didn’t know what to say, but rather you didn’t need to say anything. It was a comfortable silence. The snow fell around you both as you attached yourselves by the hands. When you arrived back at the apartment, you lit the fire. The warmth brought a red flush to your cheeks again. Sherlock had ventured to the kitchen and when you looked up, he had returned with two mugs of hot tea. He handed you one.  
“Mrs Hudson bought us new mugs...” he mumbled as he inspected his own mug. You smiled as you wandered over to the black leather couch and sat down with your feet up. Sherlock sat next to you as you flicked on the TV. It was some old gameshow. You snuggled up to Sherlock as you sipped your drinks in silence watching the tv. That was all you needed. To be close to each other and in the other’s company. After a while you began to drift off to sleep. You felt Sherlock leave you but you didn’t stir until you felt a warm blanket being placed over you. You smiled inwardly as you fell into a comfortable slumber.

You woke up when you heard the door fly open. You blinked in confusion as you tried to comprehend the situation in front of you.  
“Mary? What’s wrong?” You said with a yarn.   
Mary frantically took her phone from her pocket.  
“Someone sent me this. At first I thought it was just a Bible thing, you know, spam, but it’s not. It’s a skip-code.”  
You looked at her closely, your brain still booting up, then you turned your attention to her phone as she showed you the first part of the message.  
Save souls now!   
John or James Watson?   
“First word, then every third. Save ... John ... Watson.” You read.  
Sherlock was now reading over your shoulder as Mary pulled up the rest of the message.   
Saint or Sinner?   
James or John?   
The more is Less?   
The unimportant words seemed to fade, leaving just the vital ones.   
Saint James The Less   
“Now!” Sherlock said urgently. He raced down the stairs with you and Mary following.  
“Where are we going?”  
“St James the Less. It’s a church. Twenty minutes by car.” You said as you all pelted out into the street.  
“Did you drive here?”  
“Er, yes.”  
“It’s too slow. It’s too slow.” He shook his head as he paced in the road. He was oblivious to the approach of a car, which swerved around him, the driver blaring his horn. 

“What are we waiting for?” Mary said frantically.  
Sherlock turned towards oncoming headlights.  
“This.” He stepped directly into the path of the approaching motorcycles and held up an imperious hand. The drivers slammed on the brakes and the bike skidded to a halt just in time. 

Shortly afterwards you, Sherlock and Mary – wearing the helmets of the drivers and his pillion passenger – raced through the streets on the bikes. In your mind, you were calculating how long it would take to get to St James the Less Church. Currently the journey would take 10 minutes. Mary’s phone sounded a text alert and she checks it. It read.  
Getting warmer   
You have about ten minutes   
“What does it mean? What are they going to do to him?” Mary fretted.  
“I don’t know.” You admitted.  
Mary read from her phone. “8 minutes and counting...” Sherlock turned his attention back to the road and accelerated, but shortly afterwards you approached a roadblock. The road ahead was cordoned off with police tape, and two police officers were explaining the situation to stopped cars.  
“Damn!” You cursed as you slammed on the breaks. You looked to the left and rapidly worked out an alternative route which you overlayed onto the original route. The original one had an ETA of 8 minutes; the new, more direct route shows an ETA of 5 minutes. You turned the bike and headed up onto the pavement and into a walkway between two buildings, Sherlock clocked what you were doing almost instantly and followed. One of the police officers uselessly chases after you.  
“Oi! Oi! You can’t go down there!” He called as you ignored him and raced onwards. On the other side of the buildings, the path descended down a long flight of steps but you headed straight down them and onto the road at the bottom, which happened to be The Mall. The three of you raced onwards towards Buckingham Palace. Mary received a new message.  
“Better hurry things are hotting up here...” You continued onwards but your speed was impeded as you crossed a bridge and were blocked by a slow-moving lorry. You seethe angrily as you swerved to overtake.  
“Stay of execution. you’ve got two more minutes.” Mary read.  
You checked your mental map, which showed that if you continued by road, your ETA was 3 minutes. However, if you went in a straight line it would only take 1 minute. You swerved the bike once more and headed straight down into a pedestrian underpass.  
You and Sherlock forced the bikes up a steep flight of steps and out onto the street again. You were finally driving along beside the fence surrounding the park. Mary received one more text.  
“What a shame Mr Holmes. John is quite a Guy!” She held the phone over Sherlock’s shoulder to show him. “What does it mean?”  
Your head whipped round as a bonfire began to blaze in the park and all the onlookers cheered.  
“Oh my God.” You said, feeling sick and gathering what the texts meant. You accelerated around the square towards the only gap in the fence surrounding the park. The onlookers continued to celebrate the ignition of the fire. You raced the bike into the park and hurled himself off.  
“Jump off!” Sherlock shouted to Mary as he hurled himself off too. She quickly stepped off as he dropped the bike onto its side. The fire was really starting to take hold now and your anxiety began to increase. Throwing your helmet off, you ran towards the fire, shoving people out of the way.  
“Move! Move! Move! Move! Move!” You shouted at the people in your way. You reached the front of the crowd and raced on towards the bonfire.  
“John!” You called anxiously.  
“John! Get out, John!” Mary called as she caught up with you. Sherlock crouched down, peering through the flames and trying to see where John is while he threw some of the wood aside. The three of you continued to cry John’s name and he seemed to hear you.  
“Help!” Your brother cried. Now Sherlock had a location and he plunged his arms into the fiery inferno, throwing pieces of the bonfire aside and creating a path into it. At last he reached in and grabbed John’s arms and hauled him out, pulling him across the ground to safety before rolling him over onto his back. John lay there, looking extremely dazed as you and Sherlock loomed over him.   
“John? John!” You both called. Sherlock gently patted John’s face.  
Mary covered her mouth and cried softly. “John.” She sighed in relief.   
“Hey, John.” Sherlock said softly. As John gazed blankly up at you, his eyes turn glazed for a moment. He blinked as if trying to force his vision to work.  
You hold your brothers hand as he brings himself back.


	36. Meeting The Parents

You walked into 221b sporting three full plastic bags of shopping. You fumbled with your keys as you closed the door and moved up the stairs. You had brought some stuff for John who was in your old room after the whole debacle of earlier. You climbed up the stairs carefully and opened the door to your flat with your hip. Inside, wearing a suit but without the usual dressing gown over it, Sherlock sat in his armchair with his eyes closed, sighing quietly and occasionally drumming his fingers on the arms of the chair. A grey-haired couple were sitting on the sofa and the woman appeared to have been talking for some time.  
"... which wasn't the way I'd put it at all. Silly woman. Anyway, it was then that I first noticed it was missing. I said, 'Have you checked down the back of the sofa?'" Sherlock screwed his face up, then tilted his head forward a little, almost nodding off to sleep until his head jerked back up again. He steepled his fingers in front of his face as the woman looked to her husband.  
"He's always losing things down the back of the sofa, aren't you, dear?"  
"'Fraid so." The man replied. Sherlock glared towards you as you silently slipped behind them undetected.  
"Keys, small change, sweeties. Especially his glasses." The woman waffled on. "Blooming things. I said, 'Why don't you get a chain – wear 'em round your neck?' And he says, 'What – like Larry Grayson?'"  
"Larry Grayson." The man said simultaneously.  
You watched from the kitchen as Sherlock rose quickly to his feet, buttoning his jacket as he walks towards the couple. You began to put the shopping away.  
"So did you find it eventually, your lottery ticket?"  
"Well, yes, thank goodness. We caught the coach on time after all. We managed to see, er, St Paul's, the Tower ... but they weren't letting anyone in to Parliament."   
He stepped onto the coffee table and then onto the sofa between the couple. The woman leant to the side, getting out of his way, and the man stares up at him as he starts idly flicking through the paperwork stuck to the wall. You felt horrified as you saw this and scurried out of the kitchen.  
"Sherlock! Get off the sofa!" You scolded.  
Sherlock frowned and looks down at you.   
"Who's this?" The woman frowned at Sherlock as he climbed off the sofa.   
"Uh... this is (y/n) Watson..."   
"Is she your girlfriend?" The woman asked excitedly. You blinked in surprise.  
"What?" You and Sherlock both said in unison. You blinked at him, utterly confused.  
“No. Well...?” He turned to look at you and then shook his head, getting visibly flustered. “We haven’t talked about it yet.” You looked at him, dazed from the confusion of why he was telling these people this. The woman promptly got up and strode over to you and hugged you tightly.  
“Oh Sherlock! She’s lovely!”   
The door opened and John walked in. He looked just as confused as you. Sherlock looked to him in surprise.  
“John!”  
“Sorry – you're busy.” John said as he began to retreat. Sherlock strode to you and pulled the woman off of you.  
“Er, no-no-no, they were just leaving.”   
“Oh, were we?” The woman frowned.  
“Yes.” Sherlock insisted, hurrying them to the door. “No, no, if you've got a case ...” John began.  
“No, not a case, no-no-no. Go. 'Bye.”   
“Yeah, well, we're here 'til Saturday, remember.”  
“Yes, great, wonderful. Just get out.” He herded the couple towards the door.  
“Well, give us a ring.”  
“Very nice, yes, good. Get out.” He bundled them onto the landing. Sherlock tried to close the door but the woman turned and stuck her heavy shoe into the doorway to stop the door from shutting. Sherlock pulled the door open a little, staring down at her foot.  
“I can't tell you how glad we are, Sherlock. All that time people thinking the worst of you.” Sherlock glances at you and John. Your brother had walked over to the window and was deliberately keeping his back to the others.   
“We're just so pleased it's all over.” Grimacing, Sherlock tried to slam the door on her foot to make her remove it. She wouldn’t budge.  
“Ring up more often, won't you?” The man asked.  
“Mm-hmm.” Your almost-boyfriend-but-we-havent-talked-about-it said hurriedly.  
“She worries.” The man added.  
“Promise?” The woman asked. Sherlock glanced toward John again as if to ascertain that he couldn’t hear him, then he leant close to the woman. “Promise.” He whispered. Smiling, she reached up to stroke his cheek. You frowned.  
“Oh, for God...” He muttered before shoving the door closed and letting out a deep sigh and then turning to John.   
“Sorry about that.” He said to both of you.  
“No, it's fine. Clients?”  
Sherlock hesitated briefly. “... Just my parents.”   
“Your parents?” You and John said in unison.  
“In town for a few days.”  
“Your parents?” You repeated in shock. You had just met Sherlock’s parents.  
“Mycroft promised to take them to a matinee of "Les Mis". Tried to talk me into doing it.”  
“Those were your parents?” John repeated as he moved to the window to look out.  
“Yes.”  
You looked to Sherlock with large eyes blinking rapidly. He responded with a shrug.  
“Well...” John chuckled briefly. “That is not what I...” He turned to look at Sherlock, then looked out of the window again.   
“What?” Sherlock frowned  
“I-I mean they're just... so...” He looked at Sherlock who directed a hard gaze at him, narrowing his eyes.  
“...ordinary.” He smiled. Sherlock tutted disparagingly.  
“It's a cross I have to bear.” John chuckled, then slowly took a few steps across the room before turning back.   
“Did they know, too?” Sherlock’s gaze dropped to the floor, refusing meet anyone’s eyes.  
“Hmm?” He said, feigning ignorance.  
“That you spent the last two years playing hide and seek.” Sherlock picked an imaginary piece of fluff off the keyboard of his laptop which sat open on the dining table.   
“Maybe.”  
“Ah! So that's why they weren't at the funeral.” You hummed.   
“Sorry. Sorry again.” Sherlock said defensively.  
“Mm.” John hummed cynically. He slowly stepped towards the door. Sherlock watched him go for a moment, then lowered his head.   
“Sorry.” He repeated softly. Drawing in a deep breath, John met his eyes for a second and then looked down, breathing out slowly.  
“See you've shaved it off, then.”   
“Yeah. Wasn't working for me.”  
“Mm, I'm glad.” You chuckled slightly.  
“What, you didn't like it?”   
“No. I prefer my doctors clean-shaven.” Sherlock smiled.  
“That's not a sentence you hear every day!” He had been slowly walking across the room again and was now in front of his old chair. He sat down in it, grunting a little.  
“Ok boys, enough flirting.” You joked, e-learning a disapproving frown from them both. “How are you feeling?” Your tone turned more sincere.  
“Yeah, not bad. Bit ... smoked.”  
“Right.” Sherlock smirked slightly. John looked at him seriously.  
“Last night – who did that? And why did they target me?”  
“I don't know.” Sherlock frowned  
“Is it someone trying to get to you through me? Is it something to do with this terrorist thing you talked about?”  
“I don't know. I can't see the pattern. It's too nebulous.” He spoke as he walked towards his wall of information. “Why would an agent give his life to tell us something incredibly insignificant? That's what's strange.”  
“‘Give his life’?” John asked.  
“According to Mycroft. There's an underground network planning an attack on London – that's all we know.” Sherlock looked down and frowned. He turned and gestured to the paperwork on the wall. “These are my rats.”  
“Rats?”  
“My markers: agents, low-lifes, people who might find themselves arrested or their diplomatic immunity suddenly rescinded. If one of them starts acting suspiciously, we know something's up. Five of them are behaving perfectly normally, but the sixth...” He pointed to the relevant photograph.  
“I know him, don't I?” Your brother asked, looking closer at the photo of the man who got into the disappearing Tube car.  
“Lord Moran, peer of the realm, Minister for Overseas Development. Pillar of the establishment. He’s been working for North Korea since 1996.” “What?”  
“He’s the Big Rat. Rat Number One. And he’s just done something very suspicious indeed.”

Sherlock was showing Howard’s footage of the mysterious Tube train disappearance to John, who had taken his coat off.  
“Yeah, that’s ... odd. There’s nowhere he could have got off?” Your brother confirmed.  
“Not according to the maps.” You chimes in.  
“There’s something – something, something I’m missing, something staring me in the face.” Sherlock said as he turned to the wall again but then his phone beeps. He took it out of his pocket.  
“Any idea who they are – this underground network?” John asked as he sat himself down in front of the computer. Sherlock looked at a sequence of photos taken of Lord Moran walking along a road next to the Houses of Parliament. The sequence seemed to indicate that he has just come up from Westminster Tube station.  
“Intelligence must have a-a list of the most obvious ones.”  
“Our rat’s just come out of his den.”  
“Al-Qaeda; the IRA have been getting restless again –maybe they’re gonna make an appearance...” John waffled.  
“Yes, yes, yes, yes, YES! I’ve been an idiot – a blind idiot!” Sherlock shouted triumphantly.  
“What?” John furrowed his brow as Sherlock began to pace the room.  
“Oh, that’s good. That could be brilliant.” The tall male mumbled to himself.  
“What are you on about?” You asked   
“Mycroft’s intelligence – it’s not nebulous at all. It’s specific – incredibly specific.”  
“What do you mean?” You said firmly.   
“Not an underground network. It’s an Underground network.” He changed the emphasis.  
“Right... What?” John frowned again.  
“Sometimes a deception is so audacious, so outrageous that you can’t see it even when it’s staring you in the face.” He leant over to replay the Tube footage of the lone passenger – Lord Moran – getting into the train at Westminster.   
“Look – seven carriages leave Westminster...” The footage switched to show the next station “...but only six carriages arrive at St James’s Park.”  
“But that’s ... I ... it’s-it’s impossible.” You shook your head in disbelief.   
“Moran didn’t disappear – the entire Tube compartment did. The driver must have diverted the train and then detached the last carriage.”  
“Detached it where?! You said there was nothing between those stations.” John protested.  
“Not on the maps, but once you eliminate all the other factors, the only thing remaining must be the truth.” He pointed at the screen. “That carriage vanished, so it must be somewhere.”   
“But why, though? Why detach it in the first place?”  
“It vanishes between St James’s Park and Westminster. Lord Moran vanishes. You’re kidnapped and nearly burned to death at a fireworks par...” He stopped pacing.   
“What’s the date– today’s date?” He asked  
“Hmm? November the ... My God.” You cut yourself off. Sherlock looked at the information wall and walked slowly towards it.  
“Lord Moran – he’s a peer of the realm. Normally he’d sit in the House. Tonight there’s an all-night sitting to vote on the new anti-terrorism Bill.” He stopped in front of the sofa and smiles.  
“But he won’t be there. Not tonight. Not the fifth of November.” You finished.  
“‘Remember, remember.’” John began to recite the old nursery rhyme.  
“‘Gunpowder, treason and plot.’” You and Sherlock continued.

Shortly afterwards Howard Shilcott – sitting in his living room and wearing his bobble hat – was Skyping with you the boys on the laptop while the three of you frantically searched through maps and papers on the kitchen table at 221B.  
“There’s nothing down there, Mr Holmes, I told you. No sidings, no ghost stations.”  
“There has to be. Check again.” Sherlock said, turning the laptop around so that you and John could see the screen. Howard leant offscreen. John was looking through a book.  
“Look – this whole area is a big mess of old and new stuff. Charing Cross is made up of bits of older stations like Trafalgar Square, Strand ...”  
“No, it’s none of those. We’ve accounted for those.” He looked closer at an old map.  
“St Margaret’s Street, Bridge Street, Sumatra Road, Parliament Street ...”  
“Hang on, hang on. Sumatra Road. You mentioned Sumatra Road, Mr Holmes.” He leant offscreen again. “There is something. I knew it rang a bell. Where is it?” He came back into view. “There was a station down there.”  
“Well, why isn’t it on the maps?” You asked.  
“‘Cause it was closed before it ever opened.”  
“What?” John frowned.   
Howard held up a book to the camera to show the relevant page. “They built the platforms, even the staircases, but it all got tied up in legal disputes, so they never built the station on the surface.” Grinning, he pointed to the appropriate spot on the page. Sherlock had been slowly straightening up while Howard spoke.   
“It’s right underneath the Palace of Westminster.” Sherlock stated.  
“And so what’s down there? A bomb?” John asked. Sherlock walked away.  
“Oh...” He said as you both hurried after him, grabbing your coats as you passed.

You, Sherlock and John walked briskly along the road near the Houses of Parliament and headed to the stairs leading down into Westminster station. You walk across the concourse, through the ticket barriers and along the corridors.   
“So it’s a bomb, then? A Tube carriage is carrying a bomb.” John asked.  
“Must be.”  
“Right.” Taking his glove off, he took his phone from his pocket.   
What are you doing?   
“Calling the police.” John scoffed.  
“What? No!” Sherlock looked disgusted.   
“Sherlock, this isn’t a game. They need to evacuate Parliament.”  
“They’ll get in the way. They always do. This is cleaner, more efficient.” Stopping at a locked maintenance entrance, he reached into his coat, took out a crowbar and started to force the gate open.  
“And illegal.” You hissed  
“A bit.” Sherlock smirked. The gate opened and the three of you go inside. Sherlock pulled the gate closed behind you and you took out a torch and started to walk down into the maintenance tunnels. John checked his phone, which read, “NO SERVICE”.  
“What are you doing?” Sherlock said without even turning around to his friend.   
“Coming.” He sighed as he put his phone away.  
You trudged onwards for a long time, walking along narrow tunnels and walkways and climbing down steep metal ladders. At long last you walked onto the platform of Sumatra Road station. Sherlock shone his torch along the length of the track beside the platform but there was no sign of a train.  
“I don’t understand.” Sherlock said.  
“Well, that’s a first!” You rolled your eyes to John.   
“There’s nowhere else it could be.” He turned to face the track and brung his hands up to either side of his head, screwing his eyes shut and concentrating.   
“Oh!” He exclaimed after a few silent moments of thinking. Turning to the left, he ran towards the end of the platform, with you making chase.  
“What?” You called after him. Sherlock jumped carefully off the end of the platform onto the tracks.  
“Hang on. Sherlock?” John shouted, not following the two of you.  
“What?” Sherlock paused and turned back to John.   
“That’s ... Isn’t it live?” Your brother asked.  
Sherlock sighed and set off along the tracks again. “Perfectly safe as long as we avoid touching the rails.” He called back.  
“’Course, yeah! Avoid the rails. Great!” He mumbled sarcastically as he jumped down onto the tracks to join you and Sherlock.   
“This way.” The taller male directed.  
“You sure?” John asked  
“Sure.” You didn’t have to walk far before the missing carriage was revealed partway round a gentle bend.  
“Ah. Look at that.” John sighed. You continued on, then you looked up and saw a large open vent. You shone your flashlight into it.  
“Boys.” You called. They both stopped by your side and shone their own torches upwards. You saw that there were several small explosive devices attached to the sides of the vent.  
“Demolition charges.” John frowned. You continued towards the carriage, John ducked down and shone his light underneath and around it as you approached. He blew out a long breath as you got close and again he squatted down to check the underside while you and Sherlock looked along the sides. Sherlock opened the door to the driver’s cab and you all climbed in and then went carefully through the opposite door into the carriage itself. Slowly you worked your way along it, looking at every seat, every corner, shining your torches along the ceiling and the floor. At the second set of side doors, Sherlock slowed down, paying particular attention to something. John progressed on to the very end.  
“It’s empty. There’s nothing.” He sighed.  
Unfortunately, he was wrong. Sherlock had already spotted a pair of intertwined black and red cables strung along the wall and down to one of the seat backs. You frowned, dread filling you.  
“Isn’t there?” Sherlock asked. John turned back and pointed his torch where Sherlock was gently lifting the cushion, bending low to shine his light underneath. Sherlock lifted his head and looked at him.   
“This is the bomb.” He confirmed.  
“What?” John asked, moving closer. Sherlock stood up and lifted the cushion all the way up. The cavity underneath was full of wired-up explosives.  
“It’s not carrying explosives. The whole compartment is the bomb.”  
You and John worked your way along the carriage, lifting other cushions at random. Each one had an identical explosive device under it. While John continues lifting seat cushions, Sherlock looked around the carriage and then took a few steps along the aisle before realising that a floor panel was loose. As John looked down at the latest batch of explosives, Sherlock took his gloves off and bent to the panel, forcing his fingers into the gap and lifting it. Underneath was what could only be described as a ‘mother bomb’ – a device massively larger than the ones under the cushions. While John took several deep nervous breaths, Sherlock propped the panel up against the wall of the train. You all looked down at the massive device, then John looked up at Sherlock.  
“We need bomb disposal.”   
“There may not be time for that now.” Sherlock muttered.  
“So what do we do?” John said anxiously.  
“I have no idea.” Sherlock said after a brief pause.  
“Well, think of something.” You snapped sternly.  
“Why d’you think I know what to do?” Sherlock asked John.   
“Because you’re Sherlock Holmes. You’re as clever as it gets.” You shot your brother an unhappy look. “Sorry...” he cleared his throat.  
“Doesn’t mean I know how to defuse a giant bomb. What about you?”  
“I wasn’t in bomb disposal. I’m a bloody doctor.”   
“And a soldier, as you keep reminding us all.” Sherlock said as he angrily pointed his torch at him. John looked down at the countdown clock that was frozen at 2:30.  
“Can’t-can’t we rip the timer off, or something?” He asked.  
“That would set it off.” Sherlock groaned.   
“You see? You know things.” He snapped. You turned away, sighing in exasperation. 

All the lights came on and the countdown clock on the mother bomb began to tick down. You all looked around in shock, and John groaned.  
“Er...” Sherlock groaned again.  
“My God!” John said, his breathing becoming heavier. Sherlock paced away from you both.  
“Er...” He repeated.  
“Why didn’t you call the police!” You snapped.   
“Please just...” Sherlock sighed.  
“Why do you never call the police?” You repeated furiously.   
“Well, it’s no use now.” Sherlock snapped backs 2:15 the countdown read.   
“So you can’t switch the bomb off? You can’t switch the bomb off and you didn’t call the police.” John snapped angrily. He turned away for a moment, then back again.   
“Go, John. Take (y/n) and go now.” He pointed towards the driver’s cab.  
“There’s no point now, is there, because there’s not enough time to get away; and if we don’t do this... other people will die!” You snapped as you gestured to the mother bomb that read 1:57. John look3; down at the clock for a moment, then pointed at Sherlock.   
“Mind Palace.” He said, his words almost a demand.  
“Hmm?” Sherlock hummed in confusion.  
“Use your Mind Palace.”   
“How will that help?”  
“You’ve salted away every fact under the sun!”   
“Oh, and you think I’ve just got “How To Defuse A Bomb” tucked away in there somewhere?”  
“Yes!” John guffawed. Sherlock thought about it for a second.  
“Maybe.” He brought his fingers up to the sides of his face and screwed his eyes shut.  
“Think.” John commanded softly.  
Sherlock lifted his head a little, still concentrating.   
“Think. Please think.” He begged. Sherlock groaned.  
“Think!”   
Sherlock’s hands came away from his face and flailed, while his eyes remained closed and he continued to make groaning noises. John closed his eyes, shaking his head as the noises got louder and finally Sherlock let out a cry and opened his eyes. He breathed heavily for a moment, then he lowered his hands and looks at you both with a blank but apologetic look on his face. John stared at him in disbelief.   
“Oh my God.” He turned away. Sherlock tore his scarf from around his neck and doubled over, burying his head in his hands, still making incoherent groaning noises. He dropped to his knees next to the bomb as John wandered a little way down the carriage.  
“This is it.” He mumbled in disbelief. Behind him, Sherlock was flailing uselessly over the bomb.   
“Um, er ...”   
John stopped and stares into space. “Oh my God.” He mumbled softly.  
Sherlock was still patting around the device and mumbling vaguely. “Turn that off. Oh God! Er, um, er ...”

1:29   
John turned back towards him, and Sherlock raised his head.  
“I’m sorry.” Sherlock said softly. John screwed his eyes closed for a moment, then looked at him again.  
“What?” He asked.  
“I can’t ... I can’t do it, John. I don’t know how.” Sherlock said softly, his eyes starting to fill with tears. He straightened up on his knees. “Forgive me?”  
“What?” John repeated furiously.   
“Please, John, forgive me ... for all the hurt that I caused you.” Sherlock brought his hands up into a praying position.   
“No, no, no, no, no, no. This is a trick. Another one of your bloody tricks.” John said angrily as he wagged a finger at the man on his knees.   
“No.” Sherlock said weakly. Your stomach wrenched.  
“You’re just trying to make me say something nice.”  
Sherlock chuckled briefly.  
“Not this time.” He said.  
“It’s just to make you look good even though you behaved like ...” (He grimaced, fighting back tears, and turned away as he tries to steady his breathing. You fell to your knees in despair right next to the bomb. Sherlock moved away from the bomb and sat on the edge of one of the nearby tip-up seats. John gripped one of the handrails, looking down at the floor, then stamped his foot furiously. His voice was low but savage as he speaks.   
“I wanted you not to be dead. We wanted you to not be dead.” He looked over to you.  
“Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for. If I hadn’t come back, you wouldn’t be standing there and ...” Baring his teeth, John turned away, shaking his head. “... you’d still have a future ... with Mary... and your sister...”  
“Yeah. I know.” John grimaced and turned away again. Sherlock clenched his fist against his mouth, then wiped his nose, his face full of despair. Finally John turned back.   
“Look, I find it difficult.” John’s voice was low and tight. Sherlock nodded, his head lowered.  
“I find it difficult, this sort of stuff.”  
“I know.” Sherlock looked up at him. John blew out a breath, lowering his head, then he straightened up and looked at Sherlock.  
“You were the best and the wisest man ...” His voice was not much more than a whisper. You sniffed.  
“...that I have ever known.” Sherlock looked at him, his eyes wide and tear-filled. John sighed, lowering his head again before raising it once more.  
“Yes, of course I forgive you.” Sherlock gazed at him. John met his eyes for a moment, then he took in a deep breath through his nose, closed his eyes, raises his head and braces himself for death.


	37. The Empty Hearse

John stood in the Tube carriage with his eyes closed and his head raised. He gripped the handrail and lowered his head, blowing out a long breath. Nearby it sounded as if Sherlock is crying. His head was lowered and the back of his hand was across his mouth as his body shook with what seem to be sobs. Slowly you began to understand what was happening. John screwed his eyes even more tightly closed. Sherlock lowered his hand and turned his head away, then turned back, hooting with laughter. You sagged in relief, but then stiffened again as your emotions changed to annoyance. John opened his eyes and looked across to him as Sherlock giggled in high-pitched hilarity. Staring at him, John stepped forward and looked down at the countdown clock on the mother bomb. It repeatedly flicked back and forth between 1:28 and 1:29. John turned away as if he can't believe it. Your brain began to process what you had seen earlier. Sherlock frantically staring down at the bomb while John turned away. Sherlock's gaze immediately fell on a small switch on the side of the bomb. He grinned, then squeezed his fingers down the side of the device to flick the switch. You sighed, annoyed that you didn't catch that in the moment. John turned back to look at the clock again and then stared upwards in disbelief. "You..."  
Sherlock stood up, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks.  
"Oh, your faces!" He said as he laughed hysterically.  
"...utter..." John muttered.  
"Your face!"  
"You..." John began again, still trying to process everything.  
Sherlock grinned goofily. "I totally had you."  
"You cock!" You said getting up from the floor and slapping his arm. He recoiled slightly.  
"I knew it! I knew it! You f..." John mumbled.  
"Oh, those things you said – such sweet things! I-I never knew you cared!"  
"I will kill you if you ever breathe a word of this..." your brother threatened.  
"Scout's honour." Sherlock grinned while holding up two fingers in a Boy Scout's salute.  
"... to anyone." He paused for a moment. "You KNEW!"  
"Ahh." Sherlock squatted down to the bomb.  
"You knew how to turn it off!" John remarked furiously.  
"There's an Off switch."  
"What?" John questioned.  
"There's always an Off switch." You said, slapping your hands to your head in disbelief that you hadn't thought of that. John bent down to look at the switch.  
"Terrorists can get into all sorts of problems unless there's an Off switch." Sherlock said, grinning widely.  
"So why did you let me go through all that?" John said tightly.  
"I didn't lie altogether. I've absolutely no idea how to turn any of these silly little lights off." He chuckled and wiped the tears off his cheeks.  
Through the open door of the driver's cab, a voice over a walkie-talkie radio echoed through the tunnel, and flashlight beams approached. John stared, then points towards them.  
"And you did call the police." He wiped his hand down his face.  
"'Course I called the police." Sherlock smirked. Three armed officers were approaching, flashlights shining from their raised rifles.  
"I'm definitely gonna kill you." John sighed irritably.  
"Oh, please! Killing me – that's so two years ago." Quirking a smile at you and John, he turned and headed towards the driver's cab. Despite yourselves, you and John let out a silent laugh after exchanging looks of disbelief. Sherlock chuckled as he continues on, and John let out an exasperated sigh.  
"And you're stuck with that." Your brother remarked as he pointed to the taller, cocky male walking away from the two of you. "Dear god... good luck with that." He chuckled lightly before hopping from the car himself and following. You sighed for a moment then jogged to catch up with them.

Outside the door to 221B, reporters and photographers were milling around in the road. You sat on Sherlocks bed, holding his phone while he changed into his purple shirt, a personal favourite of yours. Over the phone the song "Do you hear the people sing?" from 'Les Miserables' blared. Mycroft's voice cut through the music, his tone desperate. "Sherlock, please. I beg of you. You can take over at the interval."  
"Oh, I'm sorry, brother dear, but you made a promise. There's nothing I can do to help." Sherlock smirked at you.  
"But you don't understand the pain of it – the horror!" Grinning, Sherlock gestured for you to end the call and turned to John who was approaching along the corridor.  
"Come on. You'll have to go down. They want the story."  
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock walked past him.  
"In a minute." He dismissed as he walked into the living room. John turned disapprovingly and looked at you for a response. You just shrugged and followed after Sherlock.

You walked into the living room where Mary sat on the sofa holding a glass of champagne. Mrs Hudson sat in the nearby chair and Greg sat in John's chair, also holding a champagne glass. Greg raised his glass slightly with a smile at you. You smiled back. Sherlock popped the cork on a new bottle and walked across the room with the bottle and a glass, kneeling down beside the coffee table to pour.  
"Oh, I'm really pleased, Mary. Have you set a date?" Mrs Hudson gushed.  
"Er, well we thought May."  
"Oh! Spring wedding!"  
"Yeah. Well, once we've actually got engaged."  
"Yeah." John sighed as Mary looked pointedly at Sherlock.  
"We were interrupted last time."  
"Yeah." Sherlock smiled at her.  
"Well, I can't wait." He raised his glass in a toast. John, who has just put his jacket on, smiles round at him. Putting down the glass he just poured, Sherlock stands up and walks across towards the far window.)  
"The question is, will this be the only wedding we will be seeing?" Greg smiled at you, causing you to blush.  
"Weddings – not really my thing." Sherlock said, causing you to frown momentarily. He looked across and winked at you. You smiled back momentarily, no one else in the room had seemed to catch this little exchange. The door opened and Molly Hooper walked in, followed by a tall man.  
"Hello, everyone." She beamed.  
"Hey, Molly." John smiled back at her.  
Molly was holding hands with the man accompanying her. "This is Tom." She introduced. You and John stared at the boyfriend, almost doing a double-take and then looked across the room to where Sherlock stood looking out of the window. You shared a look of disbelief.  
"Tom, this is everyone." Molly pulled him into the room properly so he can introduce himself.  
"Hi." The man said with an awkward smile. John continued to look at him in surprise. The man could practically cosplay Sherlock at any respectable convention. He was tall and slender, had dark curly hair – a little shorter than Sherlock's – and had large pale blue eyes and prominent cheekbones. He was wearing a dark coat with the collar turned up and the scarf around his neck was tied the same way that Sherlock tied his.  
"Hi." Lestrade gave him an acknowledging nod.  
"It's really nice to meet you all." He looked at John. "Hi."  
After you cleared your throat to bring him back to reality, John looked him up and down, grinning, then finally pulled himself together.  
"Wow. Yeah, hi. I'm John." He shook his hand. "Good to meet you." He looked across to Sherlock, who turned round from the window.  
"Ready?" He asked you and your sibling.  
"Ready." You both conformed. Tom turned to meet Sherlock, who smiled down at Greg as he walked past him, then caught sight of Tom for the first time. He stopped dead and his eyes widen. You smiled slightly as you saw the cogs in his brain turning. Tom looked at him equally wide-eyed as Sherlock gave him the once-over from his feet upwards.  
"Champagne?" Lestrade offered as he walked behind the two men.  
"Yes! Thank you." Molly beamed again. Sherlock's jaw dropped open a little and he turned his eyes towards you, who grinned back at him expectantly. Finally Sherlock held out his hand to Tom, and they shook hands. Glancing down at Molly, Sherlock walked in between the couple and out of the door. Tom turned to watch him go. Greg handed Molly a glass of champagne.  
"Thanks." She smiled. You started to follow Sherlock, but stopped briefly to take another look at Tom, who is taking a glass from Greg.  
"Thank you." He said politely. Still apparently not quite able to take in the similarity, John headed out of the room. Mrs Hudson gestured Tom towards the sofa.  
"Sit down, love."  
"Oh, thanks." As he walked over, Greg turned to Molly.  
"So, um, is it serious, you two?"  
"Yeah! I've moved on!" A little doubtfully, Greg looked across to Tom who was already being chatted to by Mary and Mrs H. You stepped outside the door, on to the landing. John walked over to Sherlock, who was looping his scarf around his neck. John pointed back towards the door.  
"Did you, er ...?" He said quietly.  
"I'm not saying a word." Sherlock said  
"That'd make a start!" You laughed lightly.  
"No, best not." John agreed with Sherlock who looked down at how he had just tied his scarf, then threw up his hands with an exasperated expression and sighed. You smirked at him. John looked at the door again, then turned back to Sherlock.  
"I'm still waiting."  
"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed at your brother.  
"Why did they try and kill me? If they knew you were on to them, why go after me – put me in the bonfire?"  
"I don't know. I don't like not knowing." Sherlock said as he picked up his coat. He trotted down the stairs, both siblings following. "Unlike the nicely embellished fictions on your blog, John, real life is rarely so neat." He stopped at the bottom of the stairs to put his coat on as you pulled your own on. John stopped a couple of steps from the bottom.  
"I don't know who was behind all this, but I will find out, I promise you." Sherlock solemnly said.  
"Don't pretend you're not enjoying this." You smirked.  
"Hmm?" He hummed once more  
"Being back. Being a hero again."  
"Oh, don't be stupid."  
"You'd have to be an idiot not to see it. You love it." You almost purred, leaning closer to his face as he turned to face you.   
"Love what?" He said intensely, your faves inches apart.  
"Being Sherlock Holmes." You didn't move.  
"I don't even know what that's supposed to mean." He didn't move either.  
"Hello, I'm right here you know." John cleared his throat, causing you to retreat. Sherlock turned and walked down the hall, putting his gloves on.  
"Sherlock, you are gonna tell me how you did it? How you jumped off that building and survived?" John asked. Sherlock stopped but didn't turn around.  
"You know my methods, John. I am known to be indestructible." He smiled.  
"No, but seriously. When you were dead, I went to your grave."  
"I should hope so."  
"I made a little speech. I actually spoke to you." You added you your brother's statement.  
"I know. I was there."  
"I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead."  
"I heard you." He said softly, bending down slightly to kiss your head gently. You looked at each other for a moment, then Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and turned around.  
"Anyway, time to go and be Sherlock Holmes." He smiled and started towards the door, then hesitated for a moment and reached to the coat rack. Taking his deerstalker from its peg, he put it onto his head and tugged it into position, then opened the front door and walked out to meet the reporters as they gathered round him, taking photos and shouting questions. You closed the door and stepped to his side. He hooked his arm around your waist as he answered questions. You blanked out until you heard your name mentioned.  
"Are you and (y/n) dating?!" Someone shouted. You looked up at the person, wide eyed and blinked in shock. Sherlock looked down at you and you returned his gaze. He smiled slightly.  
"Yes. We are." He said as he moved his head back towards the camera. You blushed wildly.  
"Kiss her!" Someone else shouted.  
He looked at you for a moment, then looked over to John as if for permission. John sighed and shrugged. Sherlock then grinned as he wrapped his arms around you and kissed you passionately. You heard the cheers of the crowd and clicks of cameras melt away as you melted into the kiss.


	38. The Wedding

As you approached the apartment sirens filled the street. You furrowed your brow as a helicopter whizzed above. You ran straight to 221B and up the stairs.  
"Sherlock Holmes why is there police all over the street!?" You exclaimed as soon as you flung the door open. Greg looked at you despairingly. Sherlock was holding a book to Greg while looking at his computer. The book was called "How to write an unforgettable best man speech".   
"Have you any funny stories about John?" Greg stared at him in disbelief. Outside, police cars were screeching to a halt.   
"What?!" Greg snapped. Putting the book down, Sherlock looked up at him.  
"I need anecdotes." He seemed to notice Greg's expression.   
"Didn't go to any trouble, did you?" Greg stared at him, still breathing heavily. Sherlock's eyes shifted sideways as he became aware of the noise outside, and the curtains in the open window behind him billowed inwards as the helicopter hovered lower. Sherlock looked round as the billowing curtains knocked some sheet music off its stand. Greg closes his eyes in exasperation.  
"You seriously brought me here, to ask about anecdotes?!" Greg snapped angrily.  
"Sherlock what did you do?" You folded your arms.  
"I just asked for help."  
"You sent me texts begging for help! I thought you were in trouble! I left the biggest bust of the year to come help!"   
You tutted. "Sherlock!" You scolded. "You could've waited until I was home! I'm his sister! I grew up with him. If anyone has stories, it's me."  
"Yes but you were out."  
"So was I!" Greg protested.  
"Yes but when (y/n) is out I don't want to bother her with trivial matters."  
"That's a lie." You scoffed.  
"Oh so she gets special treatment now?"  
"Well she is my girlfriend, yes."   
You looked at a stack of papers on the table.  
"Wait, you made it official?"  
"Yes." You replied holding up a newspaper. "Don't you read newspapers?" On the front of the newspaper was a photo of you and Sherlock kissing in front of 221B with John looking awkward in the corner. The headline read "Holmes Makes A Home"   
"'Our favourite sleuth, Sherlock Holmes is now unfortunately off the market, to the disappointment of his adoring fans. (Y/N) Watson, his partner in crime solving's sister, has committed the crime of the century and stolen his heart with her brains and beauty, although we don't need Sherlock to figure that one out!'" You quoted with a frown. "Why did they refer to John as his partner? I'm his partner too. At least they know I'm smart..." you mumbled, discarding the paper.   
"Why are you leaving it so late anyway? The wedding is tomorrow." You asked.  
"It is?" Sherlock furrowed his brow.  
"Yes it is!" You said. "Please tell me you have your suit." You sighed in exasperation's  
"Yes I have my suit!" He responded with a frown. Greg looked at you both.   
"Yep I see it now."  
"See what?" Sherlock frowned.  
"You two are definitely made for each other." He smirked. You smiled slightly.  
"He drives me crazy." Sherlock shot an unhappy look at you.  
"The ones worth having usually do." Greg nodded.  
"Can I go now?" Lestrade asked.  
"Yes."  
"No!" Sherlock protested at the same time as you allowed his escape.   
"Sherlock, let him get back to his bust. He might just make it back in time. I'll help you."  
"Fine..." Sherlock sighed. 

You and Sherlock spent most of the night writing his speech. You had both fell asleep on the couch in front of his laptop. You woke up to Sherlock impatiently tapping you awake.   
"What time is it?" You asked groggily.  
"6." You groaned at him.  
"Why are we up so early?"  
"I want you to help me practice dancing." You smiled lightly. You got up and stretched.   
"Ok then. Put some music on." Sherlock put his phone next to a speaker and plugged it in. He began to play some of his violin music. He chose your diet that you had composed and performed together. You smiled at the memories that flooded through your mind as you got into position. Sherlock put one hand on your mid back and then you put your other palms flat against the other's. You began to move smoothly over the floor, gliding in perfect sync with each other. You floated over the floor together smiling as you both became one being.   
"So John asked me to play piano at the wedding."  
"He asked me to play violin."  
"Are we doing a duet then?" You smiled.  
"I think we are." He smiled back. You returned to dancing in silence.  
"Shut up, Mrs Hudson."  
"I haven't said a word." Your landlady said, holding up her hands. Sherlock sighed as he continued your waltz.  
"You're formulating a question. It's physically painful watching you thinking." He stopped dancing. You frowned  
"I thought it was both of you playing."   
"It was us playing." He said as he picked up a remote control, switched off the music player and bent down to make a notation on the sheet music lying on the table.  
"I am composing."  
Mrs Hudson put her tray onto the table beside John's chair. "You were dancing."  
"We were road-testing."   
"You what?" The older lady cocked her head to the side.  
Sherlock threw down his pen and turned to her. "Why are you here?"  
"I'm bringing you your morning tea." She poured some milk into the teacup. "You're not usually awake."  
Sherlock sat down in his chair and sighed. "You bring me tea in the morning?"  
"Well, where d'you think it came from?!" She said as she poured two cups out.   
"I don't know. I just thought it sort of happened."   
You chuckled at that statement.   
"Your mother has a lot to answer for." She said as she brought the cup and saucer over to the two of you.  
"Mm, I know. I have a list. Mycroft has a file." Giggling, Mrs H sat down in John's chair.  
"So – it's the big day, then!" She said excitedly.  
Sherlock took a sip of his tea. "What big day?"   
"The wedding! John and Mary getting married!"  
"Two people who currently live together are about to attend church, have a party, go on a short holiday and then carry on living together. What's big about that?"  
"It changes people, marriage."  
"Mmm, no it doesn't." Sherlock retorted. You tutted at him and he just shrugged at you.  
"Well, you wouldn't understand 'cause you always lived alone. (Y/N) might change you." The landlady smiled at you.   
Sherlock lifted his teacup to his mouth but stopped momentarily. "Your husband was executed for double murder. You're hardly an advert for companionship." He drank.  
"Marriage changes you as a person, in ways that you can't imagine."  
"As does lethal injection." He smiled pointedly at her.  
"Sherlock." You warned.  
"My best friend, Margaret – she was my chief bridesmaid." Sherlock put his cup down on the table beside him, Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"We were going to be best friends forever, we always said that; but I hardly saw her after that."   
"Aren't there usually biscuits?" Sherlock said, standing up.  
"I've run out."  
"Have the shops?" He pointedly walked towards the door.  
" She cried the whole day, saying, 'Ooh, it's the end of an era.'" She continued to you.  
Sherlock gestured towards the stairs. "I'm sure the shop on the corner is open."  
"She was probably right, really."  
Sherlock closed his eyes and grimaces.  
"I remember she left early. I mean, who leaves a wedding early?" She shook her head to you. "So sad."  
"Mmm. Anyway, you've got things to do." He said, trying to get her out the apartment.  
"No, not really. I've got plenty of time to ..."  
"Biscuits!" He said sternly. She got out of her chair, tutting.   
"Sherlock!" You scolded.   
Mrs Hudson walked towards the door.  
"I really am going to have a word with your mother." She said, her annoyance clear.  
"You can if you like. She understands very little."

He closed the door on her, then turned around sighing. He looked towards John's chair for a few moments, then walked through the kitchen and down the hallway.  
"Right, then." He said as he removed his dressing gown. He walked through your shared bedroom to the wardrobe, where a morning suit was hanging from the open door next to your dress. He looked at it.  
"Into battle." He smiled at you, handing you your purple bridesmaid dress. You promptly kissed his cheek. In response he grabbed you and held you for a moment, looking at you deeply. You smiled lightly at him.   
"You're really quite beautiful." Sherlock said.  
"And you are very handsome." You responded. He chuckled slightly. "I bet all your fans would kill to be in my position."  
"Well, that'd surely keep me in a job." He chuckled.  
"It would, wouldn't it."  
"Well there are two types of 'Sherlock Holmes Fans'."  
"And those are?"  
"'Catch me before I kill again' – Type A or 'Your bedroom's just a taxi ride away.' - Type B."  
"Oh so someone would definitely kill to be in my position." You snickered.  
"Probably." He responded with a wide smile. He softly kissed you.  
"We should get ready now." You said as you finally pulled away.  
"Oh but this is so much more fun..." Sherlock smirked.  
"Yes but it's my brother's wedding and I am head bridesmaid and you're his best man. I think we'll get in trouble if we don't show up." You smirked.  
"Oh yes well there is that." You gently pushed him off of you and began to undress. He did the same. You bit your lip slightly as you watched him begin to dress again, then shook your head and continued to dress yourself.  
"Can you zip me up?" You asked, directing him to your dress zip. He swiftly zipped it up for you. You turned to look at the two of you in the mirror. You looked like you fit each other perfectly. Your dress was floor length and sleeveless, with a straight across neckline. Your locket hung around your neck, like it had from the day you brought it from Scotland. The dress was plain and simple but somehow stunning on you. Sherlock still towered over you, even with your heels on. He was wearing a cream tie and waistcoat. On his long blazer, sat a white flower with a purple ribbon around the stem.   
You brushed your pre-curled hair and sat at your vanity to do some simple makeup, some nude lipstick and a dash of purple eyeshadow. With a final flourish of mascara you looked into the mirror once more.   
"You look absolutely stunning..." Sherlock said as he looked at you. You laughed lightly at him.   
"Are you surprised by that?"   
"Not at all. Shall we?" He offered his arm to you. You took it as you stood up. He led you down the stairs and into a waiting cab.

Church bells rang out as the doors to the church flung open. John and Mary, newly married, walked out followed by Sherlock and you. Following you and Sherlock were two more bridesmaids and the vicar. A photographer was waiting outside. "Congratulations! Okay, hold it there – I wanna get this shot of the newlyweds."   
John and Mary stopped and the bridesmaids stood behind them. Sherlock steps to Mary's side as you stepped away.  
"Er, just the bride and groom, please."  
Sherlock didn't move. John looked at him unhappily. You cleared your throat at your boyfriend.   
"Sherlock?" John frowned  
"Oh, sorry." He walked out of shot to stand next to you.   
"You're really clueless." You laughed.  
"Okay – three, two, one, cheese!" The bridesmaids threw handfuls of confetti into the air and the photographer started taking pictures. The rest of the congregation came out and the photo-taking continues, including one of John, Sherlock and Greg standing side by side, with a young pageboy – about eight years old – standing in front of them wearing either John's or Sherlock's top hat. Later, the photographer takes a picture of Sherlock and you, and one of you and your brother. Nearby, Molly stood with her fiancé, and Sherlock clone, Tom. She was gazing at Sherlock and if she really believed that she has "moved on", her expression suggested that she's not fooling anyone but herself. You kissed Sherlock's cheek and she shook herself out of it. You went to speak to Mary and John, leaving Sherlock not too far behind you. After the photographer has finished with them, a bridesmaid named Janine approached Sherlock.  
"The famous Mr Holmes! I'm very pleased to meet you. But no sex, okay?" You blinked, not knowing if you heard her correctly.   
"You ok?" John asked.  
"Shhhh shes eavesdropping." Mary said.  
"I am not!" You protested, then went back to eavesdropping.  
"Um, sorry?" Sherlock said, sounding startled.  
"You don't have to look so scared. I'm only messing. Bridesmaid, best man ... It's a bit traditional." She gently punched his arm. He looked down with distaste.  
"Is it?"  
"But not obligatory!"  
"Sorry Janine." Mary cut in. "He already has his bridesmaid." You turned around to face them after Mary cut in to their conversation.  
"This is his girlfriend, (Y/N)." Janine smiled awkwardly at the two of you.  
"I was only joking." She said with her hands up.  
"Oh it's no problem, really." You smiled awkwardly.   
"Wait you're the one from the news." She smiled at you. "I thought I recognised you."   
"If that's the sort of thing you're looking for ..." Sherlock jerked his head towards one of the wedding guests "... the man over there in blue is your best bet. Recently divorced doctor with a ginger cat ...a barn conversion ... and a history of erectile dysfunction." Sherlock blinked. "Reviewing that information, possibly not your best bet."  
"Yeah, maybe not." Janine giggled.  
"Sorry – there was one more deduction there than I was expecting."  
"Mr Holmes ..." She took his arm. "... you're going to be incredibly useful." Again Sherlock looked down at her hand. He frowned.


	39. The Speech

John and Mary, with you and Sherlock at John’s side, stood outside the venue for the reception, greeting the guests.   
“Hello. Lovely to meet you.” Mary said as she shook a old woman’s hand. She then kissed a woman on the check. The woman moved on to kiss John, and another man moved in to kiss Mary.   
“How are you?” Mary asked with a smile.  
“You look beautiful, Mary.” He replied   
“Thank you!” Mary beamed  
“Congratulations.”

More guests moved past the four of you, then a man wearing a lurid purple tie came forward. Mary looked at him with delight.  
“David!” She reached out her arms ready to hug him. He lent away, laughing nervously, and just clasped her arms briefly.  
“Mary. Congratulations. You look, um, very nice.” He said awkwardly. He quickly moved away from her. Mary looked puzzled. He shook John’s hand.  
“John, congratulations. You’re a lucky man.”  
“Thank you.”  
“Um, er, David, this is Sherlock and his girlfriend, (Y/N).” Sherlock smiled at him, tight-lipped.  
“Um, yeah. We’ve, um, we’ve met.” He looked down nervously.

David, sitting at the dining table in 221B, looked round the room and then turned to where you and Sherlock sat opposite him. Sherlock held a pen.   
“So, what exactly are my duties as an usher?”  
He picked up the Sudokube from the desk and idly played with it. Sherlock frowned disapprovingly, then put down his pen and folded his hands.  
“Let’s talk about Mary, first.”  
“Sorry, what?”   
“Oh, I think you know what. You went out with her for two years.” You groaned at Sherlock.  
“A-ages ago. We’re j... we’re just good friends now.” “Is that a fact?” He looked down at his notes in front of him. “Whenever she tweets, you respond within five minutes regardless of time or current location, suggesting you have her on text alert. In all your Facebook photographs of the happy couple, Mary takes centre frame whereas John is always partly or entirely excluded.” David laughed uncomfortably.  
“You can’t assume from that I’ve still got some kind of interest in Mary.”  
“You volunteered to be a shoulder to cry on on no less than three separate occasions. Do you have anything to say in your defence?” David opened his mouth but was unable to speak.  
“I think from now on we’ll downgrade you to ‘casual acquaintance’. No more than three planned social encounters a year, and always in John’s presence.” He put the pen down again and folds his hands, looking at David intently.  
“Sherlock...” you began, but gave up entirely. There was no point.  
“I have your contact details. I will be monitoring.” “They’re right about you. You’re a bloody psychopath.” David said, his eyes wide.  
“High-functioning sociopath ... with your number.” You sighed. Sherlock grinned manically, showing a lot of teeth, then dropped the smile and steepled his hands in front of his chin. David looked down, then let out a nervous breath and got up and walked away. Sherlock picked up the Sudokube and put it back into its proper position on the table.  
“You are a bit of a psychopath.” You teased.

David made a couple of anxious noises, waved briefly to Mary and moved indoors. John looked round at you and Sherlock with a curious expression but Sherlock raised his head and looks inscrutable. You smiled knowingly as the next guest approached. “Hello!” The greetings continued. A woman in a black and white dress approached and kisses Mary.  
“Pleased to see you.” The woman moved on to kiss and hug John.  
“Congratulations.” She smiled.   
“Thanks for coming, thank you.”  
The young pageboy stood a few paces away. Mary smiled down at him but the boy ran straight to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around him, smiling happily. You raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, and Sherlock just looked uncomfortable. Sherlock looked awkwardly down at him.  
“Mm, yes, um, well done in the service, Archie.”  
The woman in the black and white dress, obviously Archie’s mother, smiled at them.   
“He’s really come out of his shell. I don’t know how you did it.”  
“Um...” Sherlock awkwardly replied.  
“He said you had some pictures for him, as a treat.” “Er, yes... if he’s good.” Sherlock patted the boys head. You couldn’t help but imagine what he would be like with kids of his own.  
“Beheadings.” Archie turned to his mother.  
“Lovely little village.” Sherlock retorted quickly. He unwrapped Archie from around him and gently pushed him towards the entrance.  
“Hmm?” She looked down at Archie as they moved to go inside. “What did you say?”  
“Sherlock please tell me you didn’t promise that boy pictures of beheadings...” you mumbled under your breath, loud enough for him to hear.  
“I won’t tell you then...” he frowned.

Inside Molly was canoodling with Tom, repeatedly kissing his cheek. Tom indicated that the photographer was approaching them, and she turned and smiled into the camera as he took some pictures. He moved on to the next nearest couple, who was Mrs Hudson and what must’ve been Mr Chatterjee from the sandwich shop. She smiled happily for the camera; Mr Chatterjee didn’t look quite so happy to be there. The photographer turned and snaps several pictures of Greg sitting at a table and drinking with you. Greg raised his glass to him. John and Mary were standing nearby. John indicated as a waiter approaches with a plate of canapés.  
“ Oh, d’you want ...?”  
“I’m starving.” She said as she took a few from the tray. John declined the waiter’s offer of the plate with a “Thanks.”  
“Had to lose so much weight to get into this dress.” John chuckled. Sherlock and Janine were standing together a short distance away. Janine looked admiringly at the waiter as he walks past.  
“He’s nice.”  
Sherlock sniffed deeply.  
“Traces of two leading brands of deodorant, both advertised for their strength, suggestive of a chronic body odour problem manifesting under stress.”  
“Okay, done there. What about his friend?” Sherlock turned to look where she’s looking. In the nearby kitchen, another waiter was carefully pulling out the skewer from the middle of a large joint of roast beef.  
“Long-term relationship, compulsive cheat.” “Seriously?”   
“Waterproof cover on his smartphone. Yet his complexion doesn’t indicate outdoor work. Suggests he’s in the habit of taking his phone into the shower with him, which means he often receives texts and emails he’d rather went unseen.”  
“Can I keep you?”  
“D’you like solving crimes?”  
“Do you have a vacancy?” Sherlock’s eyes drifted over to John, then he looked away again. Mary put a hand on John’s shoulder. You moved over to the newlyweds.   
“So, Harry?” You asked  
“Er, no. No show.” You nodded at him as he replied, unsurprised.  
“Darling, I’m so sorry.” Mary frowned  
“It was a bit of a punt asking her, I suppose. Still, free bar – wouldn’t have been a good mix.” He looked down, then raised his eyes towards the entrance and looked surprised.  
“Oh, God, wow!” A scarred uniformed military man had just walked in.   
“Oh, G... Is that ...?” Mary asked   
“He came!” As Mary smiled with delight, John walked over to the man and they saluted each other. Sherlock walked over to you and your new sister in law.  
“So that’s him. Major Sholto.” His voice sounded disapproving, almost jealous.  
“Uh-huh.” You and Mary said unbothered. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he looked at the two men.  
“If they’re such good friends, why does he barely even mention him?”  
“He mentions him all the time to me. He never shuts up about him.” Mary said. You frowned slightly.   
“About him?” Sherlock frowned deeply.  
“Mm-hmm.” She took a drink from her wine glass, then grimaced. “Urgh. I chose this wine. It’s bloody awful.”  
“Yes, but it’s definitely him that he talks about?” Sherlock pressed.  
“Mm-hmm.”  
“I’ve never even heard him say his name.”  
“Well, he’s almost a recluse – you know, since ...” Mary trailed off.  
“Yes.” Sherlocks sighed  
“I didn’t think he’d show up at all. John says he’s the most unsociable man he’s ever met.”  
“He is? He’s the most unsociable?” Sherlock seemed insulted by the very notion someone could be more unsocial then him.   
“Mm.” Mary replied shortly.  
“Ah, that’s why he’s bouncing round him like a puppy.” Mary grinned and hugged his arm.  
“Oh, Sherlock! Neither of us were the first, you know.” Sherlock looked round at her.  
“Stop smiling.”  
“It’s my wedding day!” She protested. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock pulled free and walks away. She took another drink from her wine glass, then pulled a face. You took another gulp of yours. This was turning out to be a train wreck.

After you had eaten your three courses, and drank copious amounts of champagne, someone tapped a glass with a spoon, directing all attention to the speaker.   
“Pray silence for the best man.”  
The guests applauded and cheered as Sherlock rose to his feet from his seat next to you at the top table. You took another gulp of alcohol, knowing that everything was about to get worse. John and Mary were sitting to his right, you to his left. He buttoned his jacket, looking a little uncomfortable.  
“Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends ... and ... erm ... others.” He stopped and blinked. There was an awkward pause. “Er ... w...” John narrowed his eyes and looked up at him.  
“A-a-also ...” Mary lifted a thumb to her mouth, rubbing it on her top lip. Mrs Hudson looked nervous and Greg sat back a little, looking concerned.  
“Telegrams.” John said softly. Mary looked at him and Sherlock jolted out of his blankness.  
“Right, um ...” He patted his pockets, then seemed to realise that the telegrams were in a pile in front of him. John cleared his throat. Sherlock did likewise and looked at the guests, swallowing hard.   
“First things first. Telegrams.” He picked them up and showed them to the guests.  
“Well, they’re not actually telegrams. We just call them telegrams. I don’t know why. Wedding tradition.” He lifted the first card.  
“... because we don’t have enough of that already, apparently.” Sherlock said, a little sarcastically. John narrowed his eyes a little.  
“‘To Mr and Mrs Watson. So sorry I’m unable to be with you on your special day. Good luck and best wishes, Mike Stamford.’” He read  
“Ah, Mike.” John smiled.  
“Ahh!” Mary smiled at her husband.  
“‘To John and Mary. All good wishes for your special day. With love and many big ...’” He broke off, then continued slowly. “‘... big squishy cuddles, from Stella and Ted.’” He looked up, blinking rapidly. Greg sniggered and Molly smiled.  
“‘Mary – lots of love,...’” He breathed out an almost silent, ‘Oh’. John and Mary looked up at him.  
“Yeah?” John urged him to continue.  
“... poppet ...” He said despairingly, loudly sounding the ‘t’ at the end of the word. John and Mary giggled.  
“‘... Oodles of love and heaps of good wishes from CAM.’” Mary’s smile faded. Sherlock continued reading the message.   
“‘Wish your family could have seen this.’” John looked round and saw Mary’s face. He reached out and took her hand.  
“Hey. Hmm?” He cooed. She smiled reassuringly at him.  
“Um, special day’...” He dropped the card onto the table and looked at the next one “... “‘very special day’” He dropped that one, then continued working rapidly through the next ones “... “love” ... “love” ... “love” ... “love” ... “lo...”; bit of a theme – you get the gist. People are basically fond.” This caused some laughter from the guests. You wanted to curl up in embarrassment.   
“John Watson.” He gestured towards John. “My friend, John Watson.” He looked down for a moment, then looked at John. “John.” John smiled at him. Sherlock turned to his audience again.  
“When John first broached the subject of being best man, I was confused. I confess at first I didn’t realise he was asking me. When finally I understood, I expressed to him that I was both flattered and ... surprised. I explained to him that I’d never expected this request and I was a little daunted in the face of it. I nonetheless promised that I would do my very best to accomplish a task which was – for me – as demanding and difficult as any I had ever contemplated. Additionally, I thanked him for the trust he’d placed in me and indicated that I was, in some ways, very close to being ... moved by it. It later transpired that I had said none of this out loud.” John laughed, and some of the guests joined in.  
“I’m afraid, John, I can’t congratulate you.” Mary looked surprised and John looked up at him.  
“All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things. A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world.” The guests began to look uncomfortable. You looked uncomfortable most of all. Some of them started murmuring quietly to each other. Greg and Molly looked at Sherlock in horror.  
“Today we honour the death-watch beetle that is the doom of our society and, in time – one feels certain – our entire species.” The guests stared at him. You took yet another drink. You couldn’t stand this. Sherlock paused for a moment. You were humiliated but you stayed put for John’s sake.  
“But anyway ...” He looked down at his cards. “... let’s talk about John.”  
“Please.” John muttered.  
“If I burden myself with a little help-mate during my adventures, it is not out of sentiment or caprice – it is that he has many fine qualities of his own that he has overlooked in his obsession with me.” Greg laughed silently. “Indeed, any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes, in truth, from the extraordinary contrast John so selflessly provides.” John sighed heavily, while Mary frowned.  
“It is a fact, I believe, that brides tend to favour exceptionally plain bridesmaids for their big day. There is a certain analogy there, I feel.” You stared up at him and the other two bridesmaids looked uncomfortable.  
“... and contrast is, after all, God’s own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation ...” The vicar smiled. “... or it would be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot.” Mary face-palmed and John was half-hiding behind his clasped hands. The vicar looked at Sherlock grimly, and more guests started muttering amongst themselves. You couldn’t tell if it was your almost drunken stupor or embarrassment that made your face burn red. Sherlock paused for a moment. “The point I’m trying to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet.” He looked at the vicar.  
“I am dismissive of the virtuous...” He turned to you. “... unaware of the beautiful ...” He turned towards Mary and John. “... and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So if I didn’t understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody’s best friend.” The guests had fallen silent again and were listening intently. Molly and Greg exchanged a long glance.  
“Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.” Mary smiled proudly at her husband. Several of the guests made appreciative “aww” sounds.  
“John, I am a ridiculous man ...” John smiled and nods his agreement. “redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. But, as I’m apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion.” He looked down at you for a moment, then smiles a little. “Actually, now I can.” The guests murmured again, but their tone was much more approving this time. John and Mary smiled. “Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss ...” He leant closer to John. “... so sorry again about that last one ...” He straightened up again. “... so know this: today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved – in short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.” Mrs Hudson whimpered and held a tissue to her nose. Molly wiped tears from her eyes with her serviette. Other guests – even some of the men – sniffled. John turned to Mary and whispered to her.  
“If I try and hug him, stop me.”  
“Certainly not.” She patted his arm. Sherlock moved on to his next card.  
“Ah, yes. Now on to some funny stories about John...” He trailed off as he looked up and saw so many of the guests crying  
“What’s wrong? What happened? Why are you all doing that? John?” You smiled proudly at him. “Did I do it wrong?”   
John stood up. “No, you didn’t. Come here.” He pulled him into a tight hug. The guests broke into applause.  
“I haven’t finished yet.”  
“Yeah, I know, I know.”  
“So, on to some funny stories ... JOHN: Can you – can you wait ’til I sit down?” Sherlock nodded as the applause continued. John sat down, clearing his throat, and the applause finally faded.  
“So, on to some funny stories about John.” John chuckled. Sherlock looked at the guests.  
“If you could all just cheer up a bit, that would ...” The guests laughed.  
“... be better. On we go. So, for funny stories ...” he reached into his pocket and took out his phone. “... one has to look no further than John’s blog.”  
The words trailed off as you willed yourself to not fall into a unconscious drunk state at your brothers wedding.


	40. The Sign Of Three

You stood in the bathroom, in front of the mirrors and sinks, as you splashed some water on your face. You were careful enough to not ruin your makeup, but thorough enough to sober up a little. You patted down your face with some tissue to dry your face up. Once you pulled yourself together you stepped outside. Sherlock was leaning on the wall to the side of the door, waiting for you.  
"Oh? You're alone? I thought that bridesmaid was going to make you her personal slave." Sherlock frowned at your bitter comment.  
"What?"  
"Sorry, still slightly tipsy."  
"Ah, right. We're going to perform soon. Are you sure you can?"  
"Yeah yeah. I learnt while I was drunk honestly."  
Sherlock shot you a confused look.   
"Really?"  
"Really. You should try it. It'd be funny to see you drunk."  
"Well ask John about that." He smirked slightly.  
"Oh I heard." You chuckled. You looked at his sparkling eyes deeply for a moment. He seemed truly happy. 

An orchestral rendition of the waltz "On The Beautiful Blue Danube" by Johann Strauss II played in the distance. In the foyer of the wedding venue, Sherlock and you waltzed alone. Sherlock counted the time.  
"One, two, three; der, der, der ... Ahh, pretty good."  
"Ooh!" You groaned in frustration as you stumbled. You both stopped dancing and Sherlock released you.  
"Just ... hold your nerve on your turning." He said as you adjusted the top of your bridesmaid's dress.  
"Why do we have to rehearse?" You sulked.  
Sherlock leant in and spokeconfidentially. "Because we are about to dance together in public, and your skills are appalling!" He smiled at you and you laughed.  
"Well, you're a good teacher." You leant in to his large frame.  
"Mmm." Sherlock mumbled.   
"And you're a brilliant dancer." You added  
"I'll let you in on something."  
"Go on, then."  
"I love dancing. I've always loved it."   
"Seriously?"  
"Watch out." Looking around to make sure that nobody else can see him, he swung both of his arms to the left, took a sharp breath, rises onto his left foot and does a full-circle pirouette.  
"Ooh! Woah!" You beamed  
"Never really comes up in crime work but, um, you know, I live in hope of the right case." He cleared his throat. You smiled at him sweetly.   
"Maybe someday." You both chuckled.

In the reception room, the tables had been cleared away. Looking into each other's eyes, Mary and John were dancing a slow waltz in the middle of the room to the sound of a single violin and a piano while all the guests stand around the edge of the room and watch them. On a low stage at the end of the room Sherlock was playing his violin with you accompanying him on the grand piano. He swayed gently as he plays, his eyes fixed on the newlyweds. As the tune draws to an end, John shifted one hand to Mary's back, holding her by the waist with the other and starts to dip her backwards. Mary gasps.  
"Really?!" Chuckling, John bent her back as she giggled. He kissed her as the tune ends. The guests broke into applause and some of them cheer. Everyone was looking at the happy couple. John – who had pulled Mary upright again and laughed happily – waves his thanks to you and Sherlock, then kisses Mary again as Sherlock stepped to the nearby microphone.  
"Ladies and gentlemen, just, er, one last thing before the evening begins properly." He drew in a breath. "Today we saw two people make vows. I've never made a vow in my life, and after tonight I may never again. So, here in front of you all, my first and last vow. Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always, for all three of you." He hesitated momentarily, then stuttered. "Er, I'm sorry, I mean, I mean two of you. All two of you. Both of you, in fact. I've just miscounted." He took a sharp breath. John and Mary exchanged a slightly worried look. "Anyway, it's time for dancing." He turned to look over his shoulder to the DJ on the stage. "Play the music again, please, thank you." Disco lights began to flash and Sherlock gestured grandly to the guests as Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons' song "December, 1963 (Oh What A Night)" started to play. "Okay, everybody, just dance. Don't be shy!" He walked down off the stage, still gesturing to the crowd. You stood up from the piano and followed. "Dancing, please!" The guests started to move onto the floor and beganto dance. "Very good!" You both walked over to Mary and John who looked quizzically at him.  
"Sorry, that was one more deduction than I was really expecting."  
"'Deduction'?" Mary frowned  
Sherlock looked intensely at her "Increased appetite... change of taste perception ... and you were sick this morning. You assumed it was just wedding nerves. You got angry with me when I mentioned it to you. All the signs are there."  
"'The signs'?" Mary pressed. Sherlock glanced across to John, then turned his eyes back to her.   
"The signs of three." His gaze dropped to her abdomen.  
"What?!"  
"Mary, I think you should do a pregnancy test." Sherlock stated   
John sighed and drops his head, almost bending over double. Mary grinned delightedly at Sherlock.  
"W... th... the statistics for the first trimester are ..."   
"Shut up." John said as he straightened up. Sherlock froze in the middle of forming his next word. He looked at John as if waiting for permission to continue.  
"Just ... shut up." John reiterated.  
"Sorry." Sherlock mumbled. John turnedto Mary.  
"How did he notice before me? I'm a bloody doctor!" John looked annoyed with himself.  
"It's your day off." You commented   
"It's your day off!" John chuckled.   
"Stop-stop panicking." Sherlock said.  
"I'm not panicking." John said  
"I'm pregnant – I'm panicking." Mary said.  
"Don't panic. None of you panic." The three Watsons look down, their faces full of concern.  
"Absolutely no reason to panic."  
"Oh, and you'd know, of course?" John laughed.   
"Yes, I would. You're already the best parents in the world. Look at all the practice you've had!"   
"What practice?" John frowned  
"Well, you're hardly gonna need me around now that you've got a real baby on the way." John stared, then Sherlock smiled happily at him. John laughed and reaches out to cup the back of his neck. Laughing even more, he turned to his wife and puts his other hand on her shoulder as she began to smile with delight. Sherlock turned his smile towards Mary, but after a moment the smile begins to fade a little.   
"You all right?" John asked Mary.  
"Yeah." She nodded. John turned back to Sherlock, smiling joyfully. They looked at each other for a long moment, then John broke the eye contact and they both look a bit awkward. There was a slightly embarrassed pause for a couple of seconds.   
"Dance." Sherlock said.   
"Mm?"  
"Both of you, now, go dance. We can't just stand here. People will wonder what we're talking about." "Right." Mary reached out to touch Sherlock's arm, her voice tearful.  
"And what about you?  
"Well, we can't all three dance. There are limits!" John joked.  
"Yes, there are." Sherlock smiled slightly. John cleared his throat. Still looking tearful, Mary turned to John.  
"Come on, husband. Let's go."   
"This isn't a waltz, is it?" John asked. Mary laughed. "Don't worry, Mary, I have been tutoring him." Sherlock smiled.  
"He did, you know. Baker Street, behind closed curtains." Turning to face her, he took her right hand with his left and put his other hand on her waist.  
"Mrs Hudson came in one time. Don't know how those rumours started!" He sniggered. Giggling, she put her left hand on his shoulder and they danced off into the crowd. Looking over John's shoulder, Mary smiled at you and Sherlock and mouthed what may be a 'thank you'. He smiled, then nods to her. As his friends dance away, he lowered his eyes, then slowly turned and looks at everybody dancing all around him, keeping his head lowered as if trying not to meet anyone's eyes.   
"You're amazing you know that." You smiled slightly at him.  
"No, no I'm not..." he said.  
"You are." You placed a tender hand on his arm and he raised his head to meet your eyes.  
"You handled that really well. I know you'll be worried that they won't have time for you anymore, but you know John. He won't let you go. Plus you have me. I'll be damned if I let you go." You chuckled. A warm pink flush met Sherlock's cheeks. He smiled warmly at you.   
"Thank you." He said in almost a whisper.  
"No problem. Do you want to go home now or should we dance?"  
"Well we practiced dancing, so let's try that."   
You smiled at his suggestion.  
"Of course." He took your hand and led you into the crowd and you began to twirl in perfect synchronised movements. You felt a warm sensation fill your chest. In this moment you felt nothing but love for those who you were closest to.   
Your friends.   
Your family.   
Sherlock.


End file.
